


Sleight of Hand

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic Fluff, First Love, Healer Cas, Human Castiel, Journalism, Journalist Dean, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has interviewed them all--mob bosses, serial killers, crooked politicians. Next he plans to unveil the con-man who markets himself as Castiel, a reclusive and secretive "healer" who claims to heal the sick in return for thousands of dollars.<br/>Dean's expecting a challenge, but he never expected Castiel to be so clueless or sweet...or that he might be telling the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning: I think canon has sufficiently shown that Dean finds, and tries to find, pleasure/identity as a ladies' man, the rugged, stiff lipped, plaid-wearing type. I just wanted to stress that the Dean of Chapter One, who counts his blessing as sex, sex, having no "touchy feely tender moments," and sex, is my approximation of Dean's peacocking POV. Obviously, there's a lot more going on with Dean that he doesn't initially reveal or feel comfortable with. I'm just hoping I didn't put anyone off with the initial, rather stereotypical characterization.   
> Whew! Rant over. Peacocking POV Dean. See you next time, lovelies!

Sleight of Hand

                Dean Winchester didn’t exactly “have it made,” but he was close. His job took him all over the country (sometimes beyond), he was gaining a following—both in his field and from faithful Chicago Sun readers, his brother finally manned up and proposed to his girlfriend. He was young. He was in perfect health. Said jet-setting job meant he had his fair share of flings, meaning he could crack a crude joke in Sam’s general presence about _getting laid in all fifty states_ whenever his brother was particularly annoying.

                That really should have been enough—success, family, sex. He kept his life busy enough that he didn’t have time to think about what was missing from his life. (A Jehovah’s Witness picketing the office had shouted that at him once—“what’s missing from your life, young man?”—and he had replied without looking up from his Blackberry, “pie.” See? He was fucking hilarious on top of everything else).

                It had been a long, bitter struggle to get even this far. God knows he never thought he’d be here, in a four by four corner cubicle, going from desperately trying to reach word count when covering the attractions at the World Fair, three shitty articles a day, to what he was now—a respectable journalist, with a recognized byline, covering the interesting, meaty stories that were really worth telling. It appealed to his adrenaline-junkie, fast-paced lifestyle that he loved—joining the FBI on drug raids, wading through knee-deep waters in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, being granted an interview with Alistair Stoyevski, the convicted serial killer who had tortured and mutilated four women in the Chicago area the year before.

                More than anything, Dean needed to be kept interested. The perks of his reputability was that he got first dibs on the stories these days. The downside was that it was all so _boring_.

                “Done that,” he interrupted Jo, who was helping him brainstorm from her cell—sorry, _cubicle_ —across the aisle.

                “Oh, really?” Jo tosses her hair, a surefire way of telling when she’s getting pissed off. “When exactly did you cover a woman locking her child into a car and pushing it into Lake Huron? I’m just saying, you could make an interesting commentary on why mothers shouldn’t always be granted child custody—”

                “It’s too similar to that other case last year,” Dean said, starting to bounce a tennis ball across his desk, hitting the wall. Bounce, thump, bounce, catch. “The schizophrenic mother who swore her daughter was a changeling? Tried to drown her, too. Mental health,  childcare, all that jazz. It’s all relative.”

                “Right.” There was a long silence. “Did you hear about that couple who ate each other to death? Victor was by earlier, trying to find someone to cover it. It’s the second case in a month—maybe there’s something in the water?”

                “Been there, done Erin Brockovich,” he said. Bounce, thump, bounce, catch. “Shady big industry cover-ups are _so_ last year. Don’t you remember my piece on Sucrocorp?”

                “Yes, Dean,” Jo says, sounding more and more irritated. “You know I remember that piece.”

                “I had to wear a hairnet for two straight weeks—”

                “As scintillating as your recaps of past undercover exposes are, Dean—and trust me, they’re fascinating, you only repeat them every other day—this does nothing to help you find a new cover story.”

                “Yeah, I know—” Bounce, thump, bounce catch.

                “And when you can’t come up with your own ideas, and nothing crazy’s going on, Victor will assign  you something until you do. Human interest articles. _Fluff._ ”

                Dean shudders. “I can’t help it that I’m picky, Jo. I’ve done it all—serial killers, mob bosses, corrupt politicians. I just need something new to come along.”

                “Well, how nice for you,” Jo snaps, wheeling her chair around to face her computer. “I’ll write about the washed-up serial killers and mob bosses while you try to _find yourself_.”

                “Jo, come on, don’t be like that—” Dean only gets silence.

                Left alone to brood on his next piece, Dean has to admit he’s drawing a blank. It’s not _his_ fault nothing new and exciting is going on the world, nothing newsworthy, nothing but sad, tired  replicas of events he’s already covered.

                Bounce, thump, bounce—Victor is suddenly in front of him, holding the tennis ball and arching an eyebrow impassively.

                “Winchester.”

                Dean knows there is no way to look productive now, so he tries not to slouch like a teenager caught sleeping in class. “Uh, hey.” He hears Jo’s snarky laugh from her cubicle.

                “I take it your brainstorming was fruitless?”

                “Well I wouldn’t say—” He gets another patented Not Having Your Bullshit Face. “Pretty  much, yeah.”

                “Good. I have something for you.” Gesturing imperiously, he  turns to walk back to his office, still holding Dean’s tennis ball. And Dean, like a good dog, trots eagerly after him, praying to God it’s something good.

**

                “It’s shit is what it is,” Dean snarls, before taking a deep swig from his beer, gripping the bottleneck violently.

                “Not all your pieces can be award-winning,” Sam says soothingly, watching Dean slam the empty bottle down and signal for another. “You’ll always have the great, stellar pieces—and you’ll continue to have them. But in between there has to, well, _filler_.”

                “This isn’t filler, Sammy. This is Victor being a bona fide pain in my ass. Do I look like I give a fuck about kids with cancer? ‘Cause I don’t.”

                Sam shifts in his stool as a pair of woman a few feet down the bar look over with scandalized expressions.

                “Dean, you might want to—”

                “Be more PC? Don’t care, Sammy. I didn’t get into the business to throw a bone to the Lifetime-movie watching, crocheting bake sale book club housewives who might happen to read the Sun while they cut it up for scrapbooking.”

                “Cover enough bases there?”

                Dean shakes his head, glaring at the evening news anchor on the screen overhead. Sam arches his eyebrow and opts to say nothing.

                It wasn’t unusual for Dean to complain about Victor—the two had a well-known love-hate relationship. When Dean grew too picky with his stories, his editor would normally assign him copydesk fodder if only to keep his ego in check. Sam had to admit, though, that Dean must have done something to really piss Victor off this time. This particular depth charge of a topic, complete with interviewing terminal adolescents about their feelings on the renovated oncology wing at the Children’s Hospital.  There was really no wriggle room for anything other than a tearsome, bittersweet segment about the irony of children and death—and Dean “I Don’t Do Feelings” Winchester was possibly the least likely to embrace such an assignment.

                “How’s Jess?” Dean barked, still looking at the TV.

                “She’s really good, yeah,” Sam says, refraining from mentioning how Jess, a nurse, was more than thrilled about the finished renovations in her oncology wing. “She wants to have a family dinner, now that we’re engaged and all.” Dean glances over, making him blush more. “She would have her three siblings and her parents and her grandma…it would be really nice if you could come, too.”

                “I always have time for you, Sammy. Not a problem, just give me a date.” Dean sighs, rolling his shoulders a little. “Sorry. I’m normally much more…cheerful.”

                “It’s fine, seriously.”

                “You should invite Bobby, too.”

                “I was planning on it. If both of you can make it, they’ll be meeting my whole family—guess introductions will be quick.”

                Dean quirked a smile. Just then, a older man threw himself down in the seat next to Dean, slightly knocking his shoulder.

                “Your finest beer, good sir!” He called down to the bartender, who was wiping out glasses and looking at him with a deadpan expression. “Sorry, for knocking into you,” he added to Dean. “Add two more beers to my tab for these fine fellows!” He said louder.

                “Er, thanks dude,” Dean said, shaking his bottle at him. “But I’m good. That’s not necessary.”

                “But it’s what I want to do!” The man said earnestly. He suddenly took Dean’s hand.

                “Hey there, handsy—”

                “Today, the most wonderful thing happened. I may have lost five thousand dollars, but I gained my life back.”

                “That’s great man, really,” Dean said, trying without success to extract his hand. (Behind him, he could hear Sam laughing, which was infuriating). “Did you switch to Geico?”

                “No—I was completely cured of cancer! Completely! I was supposed to die in three months, and now I have an impeccable bill of health! It’s impossible, it’s extraordinary!”

                “That’s great,” Dean said, and the man beamed at him. “I see the meds from surgery still haven’t worn off.”

                “This isn’t the result of medication, dear boy,” the man scoffed, receiving his beer and taking a deep swig. “This is euphoria! I was sick for years—almost a decade—I was on every new pill, supplementary diet, new research project, you name it. None of it worked. So I did what every man at the end of his rope would do—I sought out the alternative.”

                “What was that?” Sam asked.

                “I found a healer,” the man said, his voice dropping. “He laid his hands on me, and all of my secrets, body and soul, were revealed. He said he thought he could heal me, and he did.”

                “Hmm,” Dean said, realizing his hand was still in the grasp of this mad-man. “Okay.”

                “You don’t believe me,” the man said. “I wish you would. What you’re seeing right now—it’s a  miracle. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be _walking_.”

                “A five thousand dollar miracle,” Dean pointed out. “Guess they don’t come cheap anymore.”

                “Fifteen thousand,” the man corrected, patting his hand and drawing away. “Five thousand for each visit. Worth every penny.”

                Dean started to turn back to Sam, eyes halfway rolled, when he suddenly paused.

                “So this healer,” he said slowly. “Does he come with any certificate or anything? How did you know he was legitimate?”

                “Well, aren’t I proof enough?” The man smiled at him (like a gullible idiot, Dean tacked on in annoyance).

                “Okay. Have you gone to the hospital and had them verify that you’re completely cured?”

                “No, of course not! I don’t need their pills and modern machines anymore. They tried for years and did nothing—now I’ll never have to set foot in there again. How that’s for a change, eh?”

                He could hear Sam shifting next to him, probably to entreat, in his Empathic Sam Voice, to stop grilling the poor man and let him enjoy his celebratory beer in peace.

                “How’d you hear of this guy?” Dean asked hurriedly.

                “Friend of a friend; said he was the real deal. And that’s all she did say. It’s a process—I had to pass multiple checks, pay an upfront fee, sign a confidentiality clause—” The man suddenly stopped. “Oh. I think I might be breaking it.”

                “Nah,” Dean said, giving him his trademark smile. “One last question. How could I get in touch with the guy?”

                The man’s carefree manner was suddenly a bit more reserved. “I’m not sure I should have shared so much with you.”

                “It’s fine—”

                “Why do you want to know?”

                Dean clapped Sammy hard on the back, making his choke on his beer and start coughing. “This one. He’s my baby brother, you know. Has been having these, uh, episodes for years, no doctor can explain them. I’m reaching the end of my rope.”

                Fortunately, Sam’s desperate hacking behind him was still ongoing, meaning Sam could neither refute his claims nor try a piss-poor attempt at acting.

                The man’s face cleared. “I’m sorry to hear that. Castiel, that’s his name. But first you have to go through his receptionist, Becky Rosen.”

                “Castiel. Becky Rosen. Got it. That’s the best news I’ve had all day. In fact, we’re going to go try that out right now.” Dean threw a few bills down on the bar. “Congratulations, by the way. You stay healthy. Thanks!”

                The man might have been saying something, but Dean was too busy ferrying his gigantic brother off his stool, through the crowd, and out onto the street.

                “What was that all about?” Sam demanded, still a little short of breath.

                “Sammy, it’s my lucky day,” Dean said, grinning and digging around in his pocket for his cell phone. “First, let me call Victor—sounds like I’ve got a new story.”

**


	2. Necessary Background

The common rule of thumb in journalism is to use the word “said.” Whenever Dean quotes a source, the person “said” it—if there is any extra emotion, if there are any actions tangential to the words, Dean can clarify.

                “I have a different idea for a story. I need five thousand dollars,” Dean said to Victor (and that’s what he tells Jo, and Sam, and anyone else who asks, when they want to know how the conversation went down). But Dean didn’t actually _say_ that, at least not so casually. He used up the whole book of tricks on Victor. He wheedled. He nettled. He meddled. He pouted. He swore. He _begged._

                It was all worth it, though, because Victor finally, grudgingly, said yes. Let it be known that Dean Winchester does not count begging from his insufferable boss as a total loss if it yields the desired results.

                Dean knows that Victor can act as disbelieving as he wants—they both are fully aware this is a goldmine story. This Castiel guy is a complete scam artist, a tricky con man, one who targets the rich and sickly. This story can be so many things—an expose, a commentary on modern medicine, on society’s gullibility. Not only that, but Dean always relishes the opportunity to dish out a little justice for himself. This story is the perfect chance for him to catch a criminal in the act—and there’s nothing he loves to do more.

                All said, Jo is less than impressed. She had been excited when her story on Nick Lucian’s drug cartel (and ongoing, bloody fallouts with other drug kingpins on the East Side)  had been successfully lobbied through Victor’s office. With Dean’s new piece already gaining some traction, Jo seemed both worried and pissed that her story might go on the back burner in favor of his.

                “You’re like the John Grisham of journalism,” she shot at him, when he came bearing his news and a latte to fend off her wrath. “You keep on churning out story after story. Like a robot.”

                “Like a _successful_ robot,” Dean said cheerily. “Don’t take it too hard, kid. We both have our work cut out for us. I guarantee our stories won’t be run the same week, let alone the same day.”

                “My foray into serious journalism had better not be overshadowed by yet another award-winning undercover piece from you, Winchester,” she warned. “I’m telling you now, that shit ain’t gonna fly.”

                “It won’t. Promise. Now help me pick out a fake name to go undercover with—Dean what, hmm? I’d love to be a _Plant_ , maybe a _Hendrix?”_ Dean was trying to be sympathetic for Jo’s dilemma, seriously, but he just fucking loved going undercover. So bad ass.

                “Why couldn’t you just write about hospitalized kids like Victor told you to?” Jo groused, but soon enough she was helping to spitball potential surnames with him, laughing as the combinations became more ridiculous.

                So, by the next day, with Victor’s blessing and a undercover name Jo-approved and Ash-legitimated, Dean found Becky Rosen in the phone book and dialed her number.

                “Hello!” she said, and Dean drew the phone away from his ear just to check he dialed the right number. She didn’t sound so much like a mediator as much as a middle schooler.

                “Er, Miss Rosen?”

                “That’s me,” she chirped. “How can I help you?”

                “The name’s Michael Page. I was told to contact you if I wanted to set up an appointment with Castiel.”

                “You were referred?” Her voice is swift and possibly tinged with caution.

                “Yes.”

                “And the nature of your visit?”

                “I,  uh, suffer from chronic back pain. No meds help. An acquaintance recommended I try some more unconventional methods.”

                There’s a short silence on the end, nothing except the rapid click of her keyboard. “Michael Page of 7443 Chesham Court, Illinois?”

                “That’s me,” Dean said, both surprised by her efficiency and gratified that Ash was so good at his job.

                “Mister Page, I need at least a full day to run a full report on you. If the results are satisfying, I will call you back by this time tomorrow. Thanks!” The dial tone quickly followed.

                With nothing left to do but wait, Dean swivels in his chair to face his computer and opens up a new tab in Google.

                _Castiel_ he labors out phonetically. A few thousand results pop up, almost all dealing with the Biblical history of the name.

                _Castiel Chicago_ he types in next, with no luck. _Castiel healer._ Still nothing. He has to wonder how his conman is keeping his business afloat if it is almost impossible to find him. No website, no way to directly contact him, the whole business shrouded in secrecy. If he can’t find any mention of him on the Internet, this guy’s confidentiality clauses must be really killer.

                _Miracle Castiel_. He types in, remembering the old man’s words. Shit, he must have been somewhat drunk—he hadn’t even thought to ask the guy’s name. Then again, maybe they weren’t allowed to share. Off the record, at least though, he could have gotten more information on the man’s disease and the supposed recovery. With no guarantee that his first plan will even work out—although he has faith that Ash and his elaborate faux persona for Dean will be enough to fool Becky Rosen—he needs to find some background, some additional sources to flesh out his story.

                Scrolling through the first few results, he stops upon a promising blog entry: _this is going to sound crazy, but I think I just experienced a personal miracle. It all begins with this guy named Castiel…_

                Dean clicks on it. It appears to be the personal blog of one Ava Wilson, and the entry is dated from three months before. A quick read-through reveals little—she hedges about actual facts, citing the need for caution when approaching something so obviously momentous (also, Dean sneers at the screen, it’s harder to convince your readers of a miracle when you have to admit your miracle-worker makes  you sign a confidentiality agreement). Dean jots down a few phrases— _muscular dystrophy_ , _he was strange and intense_ , _…it was so intimate, I knew I couldn’t see him again_. Dean underlined that one. Miracle healer getting jiggy with his young female customers?        That was the kind of scandal Dean had been hoping to see.

                Looking through more of her blog, he’s able to find that she’s in her mid-twenties, engaged and living with her fiancé in an American Pie, white-picket-fence house two hours from Chicago. He also finds an email address.

                He cracks his knuckles before starting to plot out his letter to her. Even if he might not get to see this Castiel any time soon, it seemed like Dean had just found his first source.

**

                He’s cleaning week-old leftovers from his fridge when his cell phone rings. He’s hoping that it’s Ava—he left his email and phone to contact him—but it ends up being one better.

                “Hi, Miss Rosen,” Dean says. “Good to hear from you so soon.”

                “It’s no problem, Mister Page,” she says. “You were easy. Nothing. Not even a parking ticket. Squeaky clean.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “I live by the straight and narrow, what can I say.” He’s already trying to decide what Ash would enjoy more—fifty dollars worth of beer or nachos—because it looks like the faux identity worked.

                “Good for you,” Becky says, sounding genuinely happy for him. “Anyways, I can schedule an appointment between you and Castiel now. What’s a good time?”

                “Sooner the better,” Dean says quickly, and then wonders if that sounds suspicious, his over-eagerness. Then again, Castiel’s hard-up victims, those suffering from various cancers and diseases, don’t exactly have all day.

                Becky doesn’t seem to mind, though. He gets scheduled for a half-hour session in two days.

                “The address is 417 Montclair Avenue,” Becky informs him. “You’re to let yourself in and seat yourself in the first room on the right. You are not allowed to venture anywhere else in Castiel’s house. You are expected to bring a payment of five hundred dollars cash, to be given to him at the beginning of your appointment.”

                “Sure,” Dean says. “Great. So, uh, I won’t be seeing you there?”

                “No,” Becky sounds confused. “I’m not his receptionist. All I do is run the background checks for him.”

                “So you don’t see him that often?”

                “I’ve never seen him at all,” Becky says. “I live in Idaho.”

                And isn’t that an interesting detail, that the only other person in on Castiel’s operation has almost nothing to do with him. Dean’s already getting a better picture of Castiel in his head—lone wolf, doesn’t trust others, keeps to himself, keeps the _money_ to himself, more like.

                He tries not to sound too eager. “How did the two of you get into contact, then?”

                “It’s kinda weird. It wasn’t him; some other guy contacted me Castiel’s number. Apparently Castiel is hopeless with technology. So he sends me an envelope stuffed with cash every month as long as I make sure his clients are trustworthy.”

                “Do you even know what Castiel does for his clients?” Dean asks, knowing that he’s pushing it.

                “Not really,” Becky hedges, and then her voice comes back, peppier and louder, steamrolling over any other questions. “Doesn’t matter. It’s amazing what a girl with endless free time and some knowledge with computers can do. I do my job for him and other people, I get paid, and I don’t ask questions about it. Which reminds me, I’m going to be emailing you a confidentiality contract that needs to be filled out and sent back within the day. If not, your appointment is void.”

                “Keeping his contracts for him too? Are you sure you’re not his receptionist?”

                “It’s the twenty first century,” Becky says primly. “We girls can be many things besides receptionists. I don’t think we’ll be in touch again. Have a very good day, Mister Page!”

                Dean frowns down at his phone. Confidentiality contracts for all Castiel’s visitors, and the one person working for him was apparently a perky high school girl with superior hacking skills and no qualms about envelopes stuffed with cash. At least Ash was just as skilled as she was, if not more.

                He had to admit to himself that he was hoping Becky would be a good source, but it appeared she knew next to nothing about Castiel. Well, he’d been in the business long enough to know that you couldn’t expect people to give you the quotes you needed. Not to mention Becky was small fry at this point—because he had just secured an appointment with the elusive, mysterious man himself.

                Smiling, Dean went to find the least disgusting leftovers in his fridge, intent on heating them up and  planning out just how he was going to handle his meeting with Castiel on Thursday. If he played his cards right, this Castiel con-man would be dead in the water in three weeks flat.

**

                Becky’s contract _pings_ into his email while he’s at work the next day, having already boasted to Jo at length about Ash’s skills at fraud and deception via the Internet.

                A quick scan of the email show that it’s pretty air-tight, but he forwards it to Sam just in case. Sam may be a big-shot lawyer now, but even he gets a little weak and starry-eyed at the cool things that come with Dean’s job—such as being the James Bond of undercover reporting. Forwarding him the email is one part covering his own ass, two parts letting Sam know how awesome his older brother is.

                Sam calls him less than an hour later.

                “Hey, I got your email. That contract’s a bitch. Sure you wanna sign your name on the dotted line for that?”

                “It’s  gonna be Michael Page’s name, not mine,” Dean says. “So I’m right, right? That contract is serious business.”

                He hears a breathy sigh on the other end. “ _Serious business_? Did you even read it for yourself?”

                “Nah. That’s what my lawyer’s for. So, how legally binding are we talking?”

                “We’re talking no wiggle room, whatsoever. You’re not even supposed to mention his name. If he finds out that you’ve _anything_ —talked about him, wrote about him, walked into a hospital and declared him a medical marvel—you’re gonna get slammed with a fine or jail time.”

                Dean leans back in his chair. “That makes no sense, though. It’s not like he’s billboard advertising. How is he expecting to get his clients?”

                “I don’t know,” Sam says. “He’s obviously still getting them somewhere.”

                “Also, when I called Becky Rosen about him, I told her I was referred. It’s not like she was asking who it was.”

                Sam was silent for a long moment. “It’s actually really smart, when you think about it. The threat of the contract does all the work for him. The person is only going to tell someone who they trust, who would also need his services—anything else would just be risky. So he guarantees himself more customers without getting the word out to people like, well, you.”

                “Well, if he gets one gullible schmuck, he’ll want to empty the pockets of the rest of his gullible family. Keeps it quiet and all in the family.”

                “Right. No wonder you’ve had such a hard time finding anyone else willing to talk about him besides that old man.”

                “And he only told me his name by accident,” Dean sighed. “So basically, all of my sources will have to be off the record, or this Castiel dude can nail them with this bitch of a contract.”

                “Definitely got his bases covered,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Dean. You’re the best at what you do. Even if they can’t talk, _he_ can—and whatever inch he gives you, you can take it a mile.”

                “Con the con-man. I like the way you think.”

                “Thanks. Well, my lunch break’s about up—tell me how it goes tomorrow.”

                “Sure,” Dean says, hanging up and staring at the contract on his screen. He knows a challenge when he sees one. So far, Castiel’s got him backed into a corner. A story told completely from “anonymous sources” isn’t really that impressive. People will want names, concrete examples of real people who suffer from terrible illnesses, people that were so desperate they let a crazy scheme hoodwink them. Having the only people in his article be nameless sources brought the whole thing down—that anonymous source could be an Ava Wilson, but it could also be the homeless man who sings the McDonalds jingle outside of Dean’s work. That’s what gave his work legitimacy.

                Sam was right, though. If he couldn’t get other people to catch Castiel out, he’d get Castiel to do that work for him. Gloves off, pulling no punches—Castiel might be a challenge, but Dean had a history of coming out on top. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'd rather write this than do actual schoolwork.   
> I can promise that the next chapter is all Dean and Castiel's first meet-up. It does not go as well as Dean would hope.   
> Thanks, lovely readers!


	3. A First Meeting

On Thursday, Dean cashes the check that Victor had given him (Victor, of course, tight-lipped and unwilling to let it go right away), and then changes out of his relatively respectable work clothes and into something more casual. Michael Page wears flannel and worn jeans—just like Dean does on the weekends. He listens to classic rock and likes classic cars and, well, he’s basically Dean, just with chronic back pain. It’s an easy enough alibi.

                He drives his beloved Baby to Montclair Avenue, idling in front of the house as he looks it over.

                It doesn’t look like a con-man’s house. Dean’s not sure how one is supposed to look, but its façade is that of a charming but nondescript house on a road of similarly fashioned white pickets fences and flamingo lawn ornaments. He has no sign in the grass advertising his business—no sign at all that the house isn’t a normal, residential address.

                The better to blend in, Dean decides. He climbs out of Baby and, making sure the wad of cash is safe in his pocket, walks up the sidewalk and to the door.

                Becky said to let himself in, so he opens the screen door and then the heavy wooden one, which doesn’t make a sound when he opens it and steps inside. He’s in a pleasant, bland foyer, complete with an antique side table with a vase of flowers and a mirror. To the right is a doorway, most definitely the one that Becky told him to go through, but a quick glance through it shows no one inside the room.

                Well, Dean knows that this is his only chance to act naïve, so he walks past the doorway and down the hallway. Past the foyer and the sitting room where he was supposed to go, there’s no more decorations. The welcoming flowers and soothing landscape portraits are gone—instead, there’s a sparse kitchen and a bleak sofa set, facing a blank wall. No TV, no radio, no laptop. There’s a few books on a bookshelf, and—

                “Can I help you?”

                The steps had been so silent that even Dean, anticipating being caught, was surprised. He whirls around and finds himself cornered by a tall, unsmiling man.

                “Oh, sorry, man. I think I got myself lost. Is this where our appointment is?” He gestures to the woebegone sofa.

                “I have no appointment with you,” the man says in a measured, unfriendly voice. For a moment, Dean’s afraid he made the rookie mistake of walking into the completely wrong house. He would die if Jo ever found out. “I’m Uriel, I work for Castiel.”

                “Oh, hello Uriel,” Dean says, hoping his relief isn’t showing on his face. He sees a new opportunity. “What do you do for Castiel?”

                “I make sure people like you don’t go wandering where they shouldn’t,” Uriel says, and steps back so Dean can return to the hallway. He hears Uriel’s footsteps close behind him, so he keeps his face forward and tries not to seem too interested.

                “You’ll be going in there,” Uriel says, gesturing to the sitting room. “Try not to get lost again.” His hard look makes it perfectly clear that he knows what Dean was up to, so Dean just gives him a wide smile.

                “Thanks for all your help.”

                Uriel glares and closes the glass-paneled door, and his foot-steps thump away.

                The sitting room has East-facing windows and two comfortable love seats facing each other. It’s a pleasant room, Dean thinks, meant to make someone feel at ease. He’s surprised he doesn’t see crystals or smelling salts or the old-fashioned time-watch to swing hypnotically in front of his eyes, but maybe Castiel prefers to bring those out at a later time. After his pocket has five hundred more dollars in it.

                The door opens behind him, and a ruffled, panting man bursts through it.

                “Sorry,” he says, “I know I’m a few minutes late.”

                He looks up, and Dean’s only thought is that is _not_ how a sleazy con-man is supposed to look. Like he just rolled out of bed. Well, if he rolled out of bed wearing a creepy trench coat and black leather gloves.

                “It’s cool, Constantine,” he says, sitting down abruptly on the sofa. ”I only just got here myself.”

                Castiel, the mysterious con-man, gives him a forty-five degree head tilt and a pair of squinted eyes. “I’m—I’m not. My name is Castiel, and you should be here for—”

                “I know. I was messing with you,” Dean says hurriedly. “Constantine is a—never mind.”

                “You’re not the first to call me that,” Castiel says, still looking vaguely confused. Dean just smiles uncomfortably, and Castiel turns to shrug off and hang up his trench coat, leaving him in an ill-fitting suit and, surprisingly, the pair of black gloves.

                Castiel crosses the room and holds out a hand to Dean. “Castiel, then,” he says. “I’m a specialist in alternative medicinal practices. And you are--?”

                Dean knows this is the first hurdle. He reaches up and takes Castiel’s gloved, proffered hand. “I’m Michael Page,” he says. Castiel has these creepy blue, X-ray eyes that are making it hard to be as suave as he normally is. _Do not mention the Sun. Do not mention the story. Do mention chronic back pain._ “I’m here because I, uh—” the handshake is ongoing, like Castiel has no idea how to shake a hand, he’s just holding it firmly in his like he’s about to ask Dean _for this dance_. It doesn’t help that he’s felt his pointer finger slide up, past Castiel’s glove, up under his sleeve, where he feels the warm skin of his wrist. “I have chronic back pain. And, uh, sometimes the doctors have no clue where it comes from or what to do. So I looked for another option.”

                “Okay,” Castiel says mildly, and finally releases his hand. He crosses over to the other love seat and faces Dean. “What, exactly, are you expecting me to do for you?”

                Dean flounders. “You know, your magical healing mojo. Lay your hands upon me. Make me feel good. Pain-free, I mean. The usual schtick.”

                Castiel nods, crossing his legs. It should make him look dainty, dammit. It doesn’t.

                “Tell me about your daily life, Mr. Page. How does your pain affect it?”

                “Well, I’m an active person. I hike and bike. I’m a mechanic, so my job requires a lot of heavy lifting and moving. I’m, well, I’m single, so I do…that stuff…too.” His voice trails off pitifully.

                “And the pain?”

                “Yeah. Work is excruciating. Everything is excruciating. Things I do for fun aren’t so fun anymore. I’m become really depressed because it’s all such a chore, now. Tylenol and pain meds aren’t helping, and the doctors are stumped. All I want is some relief.”

                “Okay,” Castiel says. “Would you like me to tell you how my practice works?”

                “Please.”

                Castiel holds up his glove-covered hands. “These are the tools of my trade. If I were to lay my hands upon your skin, everything about you—your thoughts and emotions, the secrets of your body—would be revealed to me. It’s not something everyone is comfortable with.” He gives Dean an assessing look. “I charge five hundred dollars just for that. It’s a lengthy process whereby I try to delve into the heart of your ailment—in your case, the source of the chronic pain. If I believe it’s something I can heal, then I would…” Here his mouth quirks slightly. “Heal you.”

                “Oh?”

                “Yes. From there we would move onto the five thousand dollar sessions. They are rather long and taxing for me, I’m afraid. I consider it a fair cost. If, after sufficient sessions, I still have failed to alleviate your pain, I will end them prematurely. I’m not always sure what is within my capabilities, but I would not want to rob you untowardly.”

                _Untowardly_ , Dean scoffs. It’s an easy enough scam. Five hundred dollars pocket money if Castiel’s mark actually wises up the first time around. If not, he can stretch out their gullibility—and their wallets—for an additional few “taxing” sessions. And then he tries to let them down easy when the results obviously fail to come up favorably. It’s actually pretty genius, which is why Dean is beginning to hate the man’s calm, bland delivery, not to mention the man himself.

                “Sounds fair,” he finally says, when he realizes Castiel is waiting for him to say something. “Do we—do we start today?”

                Castiel plays into his feigned nervousness. “Not if you don’t want to,” he says. “Consider it an information session. You can mull it over and come back if  you find the options I just told you about worthwhile.”

                Damn, but Dean can see when a guy’s good—and the guy’s good. Rather than make himself seem suspicious, pressing for money, he holds off the favors for next time. It’s another way of touting his believability—surely he must be the Real Deal if he’s so generous and sympathetic to Dean’s wish to _mull it over_.

                And, Dean thinks, if he really were suffering from some crippling, unidentified pain, and the doctors could do nothing to help him, and this man offered the impossible with such a calm bedside manner and deference to his needs—wouldn’t he, Dean, be just as susceptible? Maybe they all weren’t gullible idiots. Maybe they were all just people so desperate that they would pay for a miracle. And then, maybe, they found themselves just as sick, even poorer, and trapped in a confidentiality agreement that kept them from exposing this fraud.

                “That’s really nice, thanks,” Dean mumbles. “I think I might do that.”

                Castiel doesn’t smile, just inclines his head. “So, to be clear, if you come back, you’re expecting me to act as a helpful aide to ridding you of your pain?”

                “Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping for,” Dean says.

                “So you’re not expecting me to be the unassuming headliner for your story in the _Sun_?”

                Dean must have made for an unattractive sight—eyes bulging like a cartoon character’s, mouth opening and shutting fruitlessly. “I—I, excuse me?” He’s aware of the ridiculous way his voice goes up at the end, so he sounds like an aging Southern belle, clutching his pearls and gasping in outrage.

                “Your story for the _Sun_ ,” Castiel says again. “I’m willing to help for medical purposes, but I  never gave my consent for anything else.”

                The thing is, in all of Dean’s years of undercover reporting, no one has ever actually caught him out, or done it with the same vaguely chiding tone that a school teacher might. He actually doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation.

                “How—how do you know about that?” He says. He sounds slightly wheezy. Oh god, but he’s pathetic.

                “When you came in,” Castiel says, which illuminates exactly nothing for Dean. “I would prefer if we were honest with each other, Mr. Page. I will let you know right now that I am saddened by your attempt to fool me, and in no small amount opposed to a story about me.”

                “Honest!” Dean says articulately. “Saddened!”

                The most infuriating thing is that Castiel seems to be amused by this. He’s not smiling—Dean doubts he ever does—but his eyes seem to have this gleaming, playful light in them, crinkling slightly at the corners. Well, what’s not to be amused by? He apparently knew the whole time about this sham of an alibi, and then let Dean wax eloquent about back pain and mountain biking. Dean’s not exactly being cool and collected in the worst moment of his journalism career—oh no, he’s probably giving the best reaction a douche like Castiel could hope for.

                Dean finally has the wherewithal to close his mouth and unclutch his pearls, so to speak.

                “All right,” he says. “So I am a reporter from the _Sun_. Did you know that before I even came here today?”

                “No,” Castiel says. He doesn’t have to try to be evasive; he knows Dean’s the one in the corner.

                “So, what, you Jedi mind-tricked it out of me?”

                Castiel gives him a lesser-degree head tilt. “I don’t think so. We touched, Mr. Page. When we shook hands, there was accidental skin contact.  I heard what you were thinking.”

                “You did _not_ ,” Dean says flatly. He can’t remember now what he was thinking when he was in Castiel’s firm grip—but it doesn’t matter anyway, he tells himself hastily. Because Castiel can’t read minds.  “Don’t give me that bullshit. Someone must have tipped you off. Who do you know from the _Sun_?”

                Because that makes sense, too, that a conman making bank might have a source planted somewhere in the media, making sure to cover his tracks.

                Castiel holds his hands up in an appeasing gesture. “I don’t know anyone from the _Sun_.”

                “Okay,” Dean says. “Okay.” There’s a brief silence. Or, at least, he thinks it’s brief. There are so many flailing thoughts and emotions stampeding through his head, he thinks he might be staring a hole , in Castiel’s cream rug while he tries to sort everything out. Castiel know. So the undercover story is blown. Someone at work must have caught wind of this, or maybe accidently let it slip to someone who knew to listen. Who did he tell at work yesterday? He wasn’t bragging _that_ loud. Jo knew, of course. Victor. Ash for his useless Michael Page cover. He might as well cover all his bases now—Sam knew, but he knows Sam wouldn’t tell anyone. The old man who told him in the first place. But there was no way that man would have known where he worked. Right?

                Castiel knows, and his great, stick-it-to-the-con-man, justice-served-hot, commentary on America’s quick fix addiction and gullibility is in flames. Because…Because—

                “Michael  Page signed that confidentiality agreement, not me,” he says belligerently, and Castiel’s eyebrows wing up faintly. “It’s not my fault your receptionist can’t do her background checks properly.”

                “All right.”

                “You can try to shut up your former targets but you can’t shut _me_ up. So what? I know that you know. The only reason why you wouldn’t want a story printed is because you know that you’re a fraud and a cheat and you’ll get run out of town once everyone knows.”

                “Or I value my privacy.” Castiel doesn’t look so amused now. But he doesn’t look wary, either, just confused.

                “Sure,” Dean sneers. “But you know what? You’re operating as a business,  bucko. So I can continue to make appointments with you as often as I please, and you have to honor that, or my little brother can sue your ass in court!” He standing now, waving a finger in Castiel’s face. He’s not quite sure when he did that, but he’s mid-power speech so he goes with it.

                “Okay…”

                “So I’ll be back again, and again, and again, and I don’t care if it costs me five hundred dollars a pop, because you have to see me when I pay your stupid fee, and you’ll give me all the material I need to expose your ass!” Show, don’t tell, Dean reminds himself. Revealing all his cards at once—bad move.

                Castiel though, the fucker, seems unfazed. “You can try,” he says. “But I’m confident you’ll just be wasting your money.” He leans back in his chair and nods once. “The truth is on my side,” he deadpans simply. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

                Oh, but that’s annoying, his blasé dismissal. Fuck his smug face and his conman sleaziness and his disregard for honest journalism. He doesn’t see Dean as a threat at all. In fact, he seems like he’s going to enjoy toying with Dean. Bad mistake.

                “I look forward to it as well,” Dean simpers. He turns to go.

                “Shall I pencil you in for another appointment, then?” Castiel calls to his back. His voice sounds tinged with amusement again, but when Dean turns around, he’s still wearing the Great Stone Face.

                “Yes.”

                Castiel pulls a calendar on the side table towards him and scrawls something down. He takes his sweet time, and Dean’s standing there getting steadily more incensed and embarrassed by this whole thing. Castiel looks up, the ghost of a smile there. “I’ll see you Thursday, then,” he says gravely.

                “I’ll—see _you_ —Thursday!” Dean shoots back, and then plows out the door, past an openly smirking Uriel, and out of the house completely. He finds himself sitting in the driver’s seat, head still buzzing.

                Son of a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, bumbling Dean.   
> Next chapter: Dean tries to find out who blew his cover. Jo has something to say.   
> Next, next chapter: Dean's prepared now (for real this time) to meet his match. 
> 
> I do have something to address if you're still reading this! I think canon has sufficiently shown that Dean finds, and tries to find, pleasure/identity as a ladies' man, the rugged, stiff lipped, plaid-wearing type. I just wanted to stress that the Dean of Chapter One, who counts his blessing as sex, sex, having no "touchy feely tender moments," and sex, is my approximation of Dean's peacocking POV. Obviously, there's a lot more going on with Dean that he doesn't initially reveal or feel comfortable with--however, we all know in the end he wuvs hugz. I'm just hoping I didn't put anyone off with the initial, rather stereotypical characterization. Those touchstones of Dean's everyday persona are not all he is.   
> Whew! Rant over. Peacocking POV Dean. See you next time, lovelies!


	4. Catch Me If You Can

He calls Sam on the way back, because he values Sam’s advice more so than acknowledging the sibling blackmail in such a move.

                “That is strange,” Sam muses. “You’re undercover story was so…undercover. He would have to be very lucky that someone he knows at the _Sun_ would just happen to be someone you told about your idea.”

                “Yeah, I know. But what’s the alternative? That he actually read my mind?”

                “Well,” Sam says, in his I-think-I’m-so-clever voice, “he _does_ say—”

                “Don’t even,” Dean says. “Someone had to have let it slip. I know it wasn’t you—”

                Sam slip back into his empathetic, overgrown puppy self. “You know I would never do that, Dean. I didn’t even tell Jess.”

                “Yeah, thanks. I never even suspected you. I thought about the man at the bar for half a second—but that makes no sense. Why would he tip me off about Castiel, and then Castiel off about me, if nothing could come out of it? I really do think that he was a temporarily overjoyed former client.”           

                “Okay, so that leaves your coworkers.”

                “I don’t think it’s Victor. I know we have a love-hate relationship, but why would he put five thousand dollars down the drain by green-lighting the story and then blowing my cover? That’s just not good business sense.”

                “No, Victor’s been a good editor to you. Tough, and fair, and definitely not cheating his own newspaper out of money and stories by you.”

                “Yeah. And there’s Ash—but I’ve known him for years, and that’s his _job_ , all that undercover computer stuff. It would be too obviously connected to him, and too much a risk to get fired.”

                “You really think Jo would do that?” Sam asks. “She’s the closest thing to a best friend you have there.”

                Dean’s silent as he pulls his car into his spot at the underground car lot. “It could have been by accident,” he offered. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her about it.”

                “Okay, Dean. Well, I’m sorry you made a complete ass of yourself today,” Sam says. His voice gets  a little muffled, farther away. “Hey, honey! Good day at work?”

                A bright voice comes over the phone. “Hey, Nelly Bly! How’s the fine fair world of journalism treating you?”

                “Hey, Jess,” Dean smiles. “Apparently I made a complete ass of myself today.”

                “Nothing new, then,” Jess says. “Hey, I’m counting you in for the family dinner, right? We were thinking sometime next month.”

                “Definitely! I’d love to meet the family.”

                “They’re not all as awesome as me, fair warning,” she says. “I’m gonna go get ready now; your great lump of a  brother promised to take me to dinner tonight.”

                Sam comes back on the phone. “I’m glad to see the bantering has reached new heights.”

                “You’re just afraid Jess and I will become best friends and talk about you behind your back.”

                “Yeah, a little. Anyways, I better go too. Tell me how it works out with Jo. You wanna— _ouch!_ —get lunch soon?”

                “I’ll text you.” He can hear Jess laughing about something in the background, and Sam snorts.

                “Sounds good, man.” There’s a rustle of sound—“Jess, you are _so_ gonna get it—”

                The phone goes dead, and Dean smiles down at it before sliding it into his pocket. Most of the time, he thinks he almost has it made—and then Sammy and his sun-kissed life and his beautiful future wife show him that he might be looking in the wrong places. Oh, well. Nothing new there.

                Within five minutes he’s taken the elevator up to his floor, and he sees Jo’s blonde ponytail ensconced in her cubicle as he slides into his. He can just ease into it—

                “Hey!” Jo wheels into the entrance to his cubicle, looking excited. “How’d it go? He the interpreter of all maladies, or what?”

                “Hey,” Dean says weakly. “It was, um, okay. Not too shabby.”

                “Yeah, because the whole department knows you as Dean ‘Not Too Shabby’ Winchester.” Jo laughs, rolls her eyes, and then eyes Dean curiously. “Is everything okay? What’s up with you?”

                “Nothing, I—” Dean shrugs. “Look, I’m not trying to  make a big deal of this. Did you, even by accident, mention who I was doing my story on?”

                “Um, no,” Jo says slowly. “I do have more important things going on than to talk about you.”

                “Okay. No, it’s fine. I was just curious.” There’s a long, awkward pause. Dean fiddles with his monitor, types in his password, and turns back to see Jo turning a bright pink color.

                “I’m sorry if everything didn’t go swimmingly in Dean-Land for once, but I have my _own_ important feature to work on, not to mention Victor gave me your story about children with cancer so you could have your merry time on your latest masterpiece. If you have something to say, spit it out.”

                Most of the time, Dean likes and admires the spitfire in Jo. It’s good for a reporter’s motivational drive. Now is not a time that he appreciates it.

                “Look,” he says, holding his hands up to placate her. “Everything’s still gonna work out. It was just weird because this Castiel dude knew who I was from the moment I walked in the door. So I was just gonna ask everyone who I talked to about it if they mentioned it to anyone else. I think the guy might know someone who works here.”

                “Uh huh. Did you talk to Victor then, yet, hmm? Or Ash? Because you coming in here with your funeral face and your fucking ‘no biggie’ talk makes it pretty clear you think it’s me. I might be new, okay, but I’m not _dumb_. I’m also your friend. So, let’s see—no, I did not mention Castiel to anyone else. At all. Does that work for you?”

                For the second time that day, Dean feels like a complete idiot. He gapes at Jo’s flushed face for a moment.

                “Jo, I—”

                “Whatever. It’s fine. I have work to do.”

                Jo starts to wheel out of the cubicle, but he catches the arm of her chair and pulls her inexorably back. She scowls past his head.

                “Jo—” She crosses her arms. “Joanna Beth.”

                “What.”

                “I’m sorry. I really am. I jumped to conclusions because I was embarrassed that my cover blew up in my face. It’s not the end of the world, and it wasn’t fair to think it was you.”

                “Damn straight.”

                “Jo, seriously. I am sorry. You’re right—your job entails a lot more than caring about my most recent story. I appreciate that you do even care, okay? You’re awesome.”

                Jo unthaws a little. “Okay. Well did you ever think you might be overlooking someone important, here? There’s me, you, Victor and Ash. I’d say we’re all pretty trustworthy.”

                “Yeah. Look, I’ve been over this with Sammy, maybe someone saw what Ash was doing, or overheard me talking to someone—”

                Jo talks over him. “There was the man at the bar, and the girl—”

                “Girl? What girl?”

                Jo shakes her head. “The girl? Emma or something? That you found on the Internet, who said she was healed by Castiel.”

                “Oh my God.” He stares at her. “Jesus Christ, you’re so right. Ava Wilson. I  never heard back from her—dude, she probably tipped him off that a reporter was sniffing around! Ugh, rookie mistake.”

                He scrunches his eyes closed for a second. Here he was a half-second away from thinking one of his best friends had thrown him under the bus for the sake of her own story, and it was really because he had been stupid enough to lay it all out for a girl who still thought she owed Castiel a favor.

                “Jo.” He puts him hand on her arm, and she stares at his face, and her arm, and back again. “Jo. You are a genius, and I am so, so sorry. That explains everything. It explains that I am a complete idiot.”

                “Don’t self-flagellate too much,” Jo says, although she seems slightly mollified. “Well, I’m glad that’s all solved. Are you going to tell Victor?”

                “No. Please don’t say anything to him. I sold it to him as an expose kind of thing, and I don’t want him to yank it just because Michael Page is a bust.”

                “Okay. You think you can still get Castiel to talk, even though he knows you’re a reporter?”

                “Hey, I’m still Dean Winchester, right?” He’s fishing a little, he knows, but Jo smiles.

                “Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Anyways, I…” She bites her lip, looking a little uncertain. “I, um, was wondering, actually, if I could run over what I have so far with you. Only if you have time, I mean. If not—”

                “ I have the time, Jo,” Dean says. He does, and besides that, he still feels awful about his assumption from earlier.

                Jo beams. “Okay, let me get my stuff real quick. One sec.”

                Her wheels squeak over into the cubicle across the aisle, and the sound of paper being shifted around. Then she’s back, holding a black binder.

                “Okay,” she says nervously. She reminds him of himself, as an anxious teenager, working on the local paper and trying to lobby a story he had written to the kindly but regretful editor.

                “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

                Jo flips open the binder, showing the first page to be a black-and-white picture of a familiar face. “Nick Lucian. Leader of Chicago’s most expansive and lucrative drug cartel. Rumored to have a finger in many pots, including the Mayor’s office.”

                She flips the page, showing the deposed Mayor. “Fergus Crowley. Suspiciously silent on the drug war that plagued the East Side, rumored to have sold multiple lots along the waterfront to a company owned by Nick Lucian. These lots get warehouses built on them, are heavily guarded, and are probably the scene where Nick Lucian hopes to launch a drug exportation racket across Lake Huron. Presumably, some of the money would go to line Crowley’s coffers.”

                Another page flip. “Crowley gets ejected from office for unrelated Ponzi scheme. Lindsey Abaddon, our fiery and furious successor, hopes to re-establish Chicago’s good name by scourging the thriving drug cartels. Lots of arrests, great PC for her office, but for whatever reason, Nick Lucian’s cartel continues to thrive, cockroach-like.”

                “Nice.” Dean says. Jo flips the page from a picture of Abaddon, mid-speech and impassioned, to a much grislier compilation of dead and decaying bodies.

                “The police get two anonymous tips over the course of four weeks, pertaining to dead bodies found within the premises of warehouses owned by Lucian’s company. Armed by federal warrants, they gain access to two separate warehouses, where they do indeed find the remains of two of Lucian’s drug runners, as well as the largest stockpile of miscellaneous methamphetamines this side of the Mississippi.”

                She flips the page one last time, revealing a shadowy blank figure with a question mark layered over it. “My sources within the police department are sure that Lucian is still successfully running his operation. Interestingly, after the first cache was found, eight warehouses under Lucian’s company were sold to a variety of other buyers. Because of this, the police cannot use their warrant to search warehouses no longer under Lucian’s ownership, unless they have due cause to. Due to Abaddon’s scrutiny and the fallout, Lucian and his known associates have all but gone underground, but the police are sure he’s heavily questioning the loyalty of everyone underneath him, trying to sniff out his mole.”

                Jo abruptly leans forward. “Dean, Lucian wouldn’t have planted his own men’s bodies in his warehouses. The person who gave the police the tip—that person must’ve been working with whoever killed them, or maybe even killed them himself. Or herself. Either way, that person wanted Lucian to get caught. Lucian has someone high up in his ranks—high enough to know the locations of his drug caches—who wants him to go down. If I can find that anonymous source, I can help bury Lucian.”

                She stops, and gives Dean an odd look. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

                Dean’ aware that his face is split into a fond, proud grin. “Like what?”

                “You look really goofy. What?” He changes his grin into a leer, and she laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”

                “Well, you’re awesome. Seriously. That’s some great work you’ve put into that. That’s—Jesus, Jo. That’s gonna be a great story.”

                Jo glows. “Thanks, Dean.” She looks down at the binder, down at the figure with the question mark. “There’s one more thing. In order to find the anonymous tip, I think I need to, well…get closer to the source. I think I need to go undercover.”

                “Okay.”

                “I mean, I know you’ve done it all. You’ve gone undercover in the mob, and in the councilman’s office, and you’re just Dean Fucking Winchester so this is probably small fries, but I know I can do it. I know if I can swing this, I can bring down Lucian myself.”

                “Well, Jo, since you’re a woman—”

                “Don’t you dare. Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t do badass things too, Dean Fucking Winchester.”

                “I _know_ ,” Dean says, leaning forward to catch her hand. “Listen for a second. What I was going to say is—since you’re a woman, you can go about it at a different angle than I ever could. Befriend wives and girlfriends. Find the girls at the strip clubs and cat houses that his men use regularly. Lucian has an Old Boys’ Club, so he’s knuckling down on his men, but he’s never gonna expect that girlfriends might talk, that their favorite strippers might know a lot more than they should.”

                “You’re right,” Jo says, clutching the binder to her chest. “Lucian will be completely blindsided. I gotta go talk to Victor. Dean, thanks for all your help.” She squeezes his hand and rockets her wheelie chair out.

                Smiling, Dean turns back to his computer, only to find a confusing email at the top of his inbox. Ava Wilson, Castiel’s former client, the person who blew his cover, finally replied to his message. Ava Wilson wants to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was a necessary chapter--because Dean simply can't accept that his conman might have read his mind upon their first meeting! However, I can promise from here on out, the chapters will be ninety percent Cas.   
> I hope no one thought this was filler! I love to give the SPN ladies their share in the limelight, and *hint* maybe this whole thing with Jo and Lucian is somehow relevant to the plot?!  
> Next chapter: Dean's confused by his visit with Ava, Cas is unhelpful, Sam and Jo make appearances and snappy comebacks.   
> Next, next chapter: Cas gives Dean a lesson on perspective, Jo might not be cut out for the job.


	5. The Sucker

Ava Wilson doesn’t exactly live a stone’s throw away. Nonetheless, Dean wakes up early Thursday, brew a cup of coffee, and hits the road.

                He was wary, initially, of going to see her, sure as he was that there was nothing more to say to each other. He had contacted her, she had tipped off a friend, all’s fair in love and journalism.

                Except he had to admit, he was curious. What was the point of entertaining a story with Dean, if she had shut it down by telling Castiel? Her email had seemed honest and polite—which didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it was confusing enough that Dean figured he might as well ask Ava herself.

                The drive was more enjoyable than he thought it would be. Once out of the shadow of the city, he rolled down the windows and sang along to some classic Zep, sipping coffee during guitar riffs. He vaguely made plans to mention to Sam how great it would be to have an old-fashioned road trip again, just the two of them, and Baby, and miles of open road. Then he remembered that he was married to his job, and Sam was soon to be married to Jess, and his enthusiasm dimmed a little. They were growing up. No more road trips.

                He made good time to Ava’s house, and drained his cold coffee for a last fortifying measure before leaping out of the car and up the walk. She was there at the door to meet him.

                “Hi, Dean, right?” She says. She was struggling with the collar of a big black dog, who was whining frantically, trying to smother Dean in one hundred pounds of affection.

                “Yeah, that’s me.” He leans down and scratches the dog under his chin, sending it into hysterics. “Cute. What’s his name?”

                “Dog.” She rolls her eyes. “My husband thinks he has a great sense of humor. Please, come in. I’ll try to keep Dog from slide tackling you.”

                “Appreciated.”

                Dean waits in the foyer while Ava manhandles into the laundry room, closing the door on his puppy-eyed expression.

                “Sorry. We’d never get any talking done otherwise.”

                “It’s no problem,” Dean says. Ava leads him into the kitchen, gesturing for him to take a seat on a bar stool there.

                “I have to say, I was surprised you contacted me. I made that blog post months ago.”

                “Yeah, well, you’re the only one I was able to find who admitted to ever seeing him. He really gags you about the whole thing, doesn’t he?”

                “Necessary precaution, I suppose,” Ava says, leaning on the counter across from him. “Another reason why I never thought a journalist would be contacting me about him. But, like you said, as long as it’s from an anonymous source, I’d be happy to do it.”

                Dean reaches into his satchel, drawing out his notepad and pen. “Why would you be happy to do it? Revenge?”

                “Not at all,” Ava says, looking surprised. “I owe Castiel my life. I don’t harbor any bad feelings towards him whatsoever.”

                “Okay. Why take the risk, then?”

                “Because you work for a reputable newspaper; you’re a big-time reporter. I’m trusting you not be all sensationalism and hoodoo. Some unbiased reporting might be helpful in letting me say my piece without coming across as a complete lunatic.”

                “An anonymous lunatic,” Dean confirms. “So. Tell me about it. You say he saved your life?”

                “I’m sure you saw in my blog post that I was diagnosed with MS,” Ava says. “My fiancé and I were planning a wedding at the time, but we thought it best to hold off while we considered treatment options, or any options, really. It wasn’t a death sentence, but it’s still an incredibly degenerative disease.”

                “By complete accident, I learned about Castiel. I was at the hospital and I was crying, and this woman was there. She had just had a checkup and the doctors couldn’t explain it, some crazy medical miracle. She saw me crying and for whatever reason, she chose to tell me about Castiel. That he’d saved her life, and now she was gonna let him save mine.”

                Dean opens his mouth, but Ava shakes his head. “I know what you’re gonna ask. Her name was Irene Davis, but she died a few months ago. Car accident.”

                Dean jotted down her name.

                “I guess the rest is history. I went to see Castiel and he was super polite, very professional. We had four sessions together. My fiancé wasn’t happy. We mortgaged the house, we put all the money for the wedding and the honeymoon towards it. But it worked. It did. I’m completely healthy now.”

                “Do you keep in touch with him anymore?”

                “No. He was very, very kind to me. But you don’t keep in touch with your mechanic once your car’s fixed, you know?” Dean gives her a shocked look. “Okay, well _I_ don’t at least. He performed a service for me, and I paid him.”

                Ava’s gaze is direct, her tone straightforward. Dean has to be good at reading people, a necessity for the job, and it seems like she’s telling him the complete truth. It’s baffling.

                “Well, cards on the table, I went to see Castiel two days ago,” Dean says. “He already knew that I was a reporter before I even walked through the door. This whole time I’ve assumed that you told him to expect me.”

                Ava shakes her head. “Like I said, we don’t keep in touch. And I didn’t consider your email to be any threat towards him, either. So no, it wasn’t me.”

                Dean nods, looking over his notes. “What did you mean in your blog post, about it being too intimate? Did you and Castiel—?”

                Ava flushes. “No. Never. Truth be told, it’s not that he’s an unattractive guy, but he always like a robot, or a clock. No small talk, nothing but business. Not a real person.”

                “So what did you mean by that?”

                “I—” Ava looks down, fiddling with her wedding ring. “If you had a session with Castiel, you’d know what I mean. When he touches you, everything, _everything_ , is exposed. I knew that going in, but it’s still—well. My husband and I had some trust issues when we dated; I messed up a couple of times. And I had a rough childhood. Castiel knew those things about me. I’ll always appreciate what he did for me, but— _no one_ should know everything about you, not even the person you love most in the world. To be laid out bare in front of that guy was the most mortifying and yes, intimate, moment of my life. And then he healed me and I went on my way, glad I’d never see him again.”

                “But you said your husband doesn’t like him? Is it because he thinks the treatment didn’t work?”

                “The treatment _did_ work, Dean. And I didn’t say that. My husband took issue with the fact that we spent our whole life savings on a guy whose credentials came from The Great Beyond. He doesn’t like the method or the money we put into it, but he’s not gonna complain. He knows as well as me what Castiel did for me.”  

                “Okay, last question. I don’t mean to push, but, is there any proof that you actually had MS? You look great now.” Dean tries not to sound completely skeezy, but Ava rolls her eyes at him.

                “Thanks. Well, my whole blog was supposed to document my experiences. So I talk a lot about it on there. But I realize journalists want cold hard facts, so I wrote this up for you.” She hands him a piece of paper. “My husband. My doctor—I’ll tell him to expect a call. The leader of the MS support group downtown. They can all verify that my diagnosis was very real—and then it somehow disappeared. Like a miracle.” She smiles.

                Dean tucks the paper carefully into his pocket. “That’ll be really helpful, Ava, thanks.”

                “No problem. I know Castiel is really gungho about his privacy, but I think this story will be a good thing. If the word gets out, Castiel can help more and more people, give them the same miracles he gave me.”

                Dean tries not to appear guilty, and aims for a bland, vague statement. “Yeah. It’ll definitely get his name out there.” Technically, that isn’t a lie.

                Ava shakes his hand and leads him past the laundry room, where Dean can hear Dog’s tail thumping against the wall excitedly. He gets into Baby and pores over his notepad, thinking hard.

                If he trusts his journalist instinct—and he does, it’s gotten him far in the field—Ava is telling the truth. She hasn’t seen or contacted Castiel since their business was completed. He thought he’d figured out who told Castiel about his interest, but now he isn’t so sure.

                Honestly, his visit with her didn’t clear anything up at all. Now he just has a bunch of threads to follow—Irene Davis, her doctor, her supposed “cure.” Somehow this seemingly bright, witty girl let herself be taken in by Castiel, but became his champion defender. She owes him her life, but she would never want to see him again. He can only decide that Ava seemed honest, that she _thought_ she was telling the truth.

                Dean looks at the clock and curses. No time to wrestle with the new problems now. He has a meeting with Castiel in two and a half hours, and he wants to get a coffee on the way. Something tells him he needs to stay sharp.

**

                Uriel is insufferably stationed just inside the door when he gets to Castiel’s house.

                “Do you need any help finding the first door to your right?” He says.

                “You’re hilarious, Chuckles. Keep it up.”

                This time, when Dean enters the room, Castiel is already sitting on his couch. He’s sitting with his hands clasped in front of him, an odd study of contradictions—his feet are firmly planted, bent ninety degrees at the knee—how Dean imagines a U.S. Marine sits. But his shoulders are slightly slumped, like he’s in the habit of shyly ducking scrutiny. He looks like he might have been sitting there like that for hours, and could continue to do so for the rest of time if he needed to. He looks like he could wait for Dean, and wait on Dean, with an air of content, benevolent patience—

                “Hey.” Dean says suddenly. He then proceeds to sit down opposite Castiel and unload his satchel onto the coffee table between them. Notepad, pen, a tape recorder, and finally his watch, so he can keep the time. Castiel watches this all silently, impassively.

                “Hello, Dean,” he says. Dean fiddles with the tape recorder. “I do know your name now—Dean. Uriel has the _Internet_ —” here Castiel stopped to make air quotations, as though he still doubted the legitimacy of its existence—“on his cell phone, and I looked through the staff photos until I found yours.” He looks slightly proud as he says this, but Dean only grunts.

                “Okay, recorder’s on,” he says. “It’s June 27th, and this is my first official interview with Castiel, resident healer of Montclair Avenue. I’ll begin.”

                Castiel looks bemused by this, like he might question the legitimacy of a _tape recorder_ as well, but Dean picks up his pen and starts talking.

                “So, I’ll give you one last chance to answer the question. Who’s your source at the _Sun_?”

                “No one.”

                “Right.” There’s a pause. “Okay. Let’s start with some basics. Full name?”

                “Castiel is fine.”

                “Look, man, I’m not asking you what’s fine. I’m asking you for your full name. Background. It’s an easy enough concept.”

                “I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says. “I’m afraid I meant you knowing me just as Castiel is all I’m fine with giving.” He does truly manage to look apologetic as he says it. Dean wants to scowl, but he doesn’t want this meeting to go off the rails in five minutes flat, like last time, so he grits his teeth and gives him a tight smile.

                “Fine. Castiel is fine. Got it. Where are you from, Castiel?”          

                “Not from here originally,” Castiel says. “I’ve moved around a few times.”

                “Oh yeah? What other places?”

                In return, Dean gets another apologetic, slightly uncomfortable look. Then there’s an equally uncomfortable pause.

                “So you agree to see me, but you’re not gonna answer any of my questions? I’m much obliged, thanks,” Dean says.

                Castiel gives him a blank look, like Dean’s comments didn’t even compute. “I’m sorry, Dean. Perhaps we should clarify. You’re paying to see me so you can ask me questions for a story I don’t want published. There are some things I’d rather not answer. I’m afraid you’re not going to like any of my answers pertaining to my past.”

                “Fine,” Dean says, putting vicious lines through his next few questions. “No questions about your past. So, tell me how long you’ve had the hands of magic.”

                “My whole life.”

                “So you could heal peoples’ hemorrhoids since the toddler years, huh?”

                “Yes.”

                Dean sighs. “Alright, is there anyone you’d be willing to put me in contact with? Friends or family? People who can corroborate your story?” There was no point in telling Castiel that he was coming off more bland than a slice of white bread right now—he was struggling to keep his temper in check as is.

                Castiel shook his head, pursing his lips. “No.”

                “No, you won’t tell me any?” He can’t keep the frustrated disbelief from his tone, or maybe he hasn’t been from the start. It’s too hard when he’s disliked Castiel from the get-go, and right now he’s pursing his stupid dry, plush lips on his stupid attractive face with his stupid sex hair, and if he thinks that’s enough to throw Dean off his game, _well_.

                “No, no friends or family,” Castiel clarifies, because Dean’s still staring at him.

                Dean sits there a moment more— _screw it_ , and then flips his notepad closed. “Look, I’m writing this story whether you like it or not. So you being an unhelpful douchebag in the interview process—that’s not doing you any favors. Refusing to talk about your past, not knowing a single person who can recommend you—are you _trying_ to come off as an untrustworthy sleazebag?”

                Castiel thinks about this for a long moment. “No.”

                “Jesus _Christ_. You know, for the sake of some unbiased journalism, I was at least gonna give you the chance to make a case for yourself, but if that’s how you want to play it, fine.”

                “I do want to make a case for myself,” Castiel says. “All I have to do is lay my hands on you, Dean, and read your mind, and then you’ll know I’m telling the truth. When I do, they’ll be no story.”

                “That’s great, Castiel, really, but I haven’t gotten there yet. So since I’m paying you five hundred dollars for this crap session, mind illuminating for me what questions I might as well not ask? Or are you purposely gonna give me shit for the rest of this hour?”  

                Castiel, damn him, makes a show of steepling his fingers and thinking hard about Dean’s questions. Dean, in the mean time, can only fume—mostly at the fact that he didn’t think about this, that he would pay Castiel five hundred dollars for Castiel to bullshit him around and refuse to answer questions. What a waste.

                “No questions about my past, or about my family,” Castiel decides. “I’ll try to answer all your other questions as best as I can.” He nods to Dean, pleased with himself.

                “How generous of you,” Dean says, picking his notepad  back up and flipping it open.

                Castiel just shrugs, squinting his eyes at Dean like Dean’s the one causing all the problems here. “Like I said, none of this will matter once I prove to you that I’m not lying. Then you’ll have to throw out your story.”

                Dean chooses to ignore that and find a relevant question. Castiel is looking at him—poised, seemingly sincere, a perfect gentleman. It’s driving him up the wall; Castiel politely dancing around questions, making Dean the bull to his china shop. He must be internally laughing his ass off, thinking he’s got Dean stuffed.

                Dean will get around to Castiel’s whole charade as a mind reader later—that will be the final say-so as to who’s really going to win this battle.

                Until then, Dean can waste Castiel’s time right back.

                He pulls out the full five thousand dollars that he cashed, dropping it on the table nonchalantly. “Oh, before I forget. Wanted to go ahead and book you. Two one-hour sessions for the next five weeks, please.”

                For a long moment Castiel stares at the pile of money, brow furrowed. Good, hopefully he’s imagining the pain and hassle of being barraged by Dean’s questions, the monumental effort it will take to say nothing incriminating, not when Dean’s there waiting for the slightest slip—

                Castiel looks up. “I look forward to it,” he says, his voice deep and solemn. He even deigns Dean with a small, nervous, tight-lipped smile—like he’s not quite sure how a smile works, but he’s testing out a theory and hoping for the right result.

                Dean gives one back, even though it feels more like a grimace. “Great.” And then, “Let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this has been getting written a lot faster than I thought it would. Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading!  
> Next chapter: Dean sees Jo in a different light, Sam and Jess put their two cents in, Dean has another meeting with the nerdiest conman.  
> Next, next chapter: Dean brings someone to see Cas so he can see if Cas can really read minds.


	6. The Lone Operator

 

For the first half hour that Dean’s back at the office, he can’t put his finger on why something feels off.

                Finally, when he’s bouncing a tennis ball against the wall and trying to decide the best way to completely and utterly destroy Castiel, he realizes it’s because Jo isn’t across the hall, snarling in annoyance and threatening to shove said tennis ball up his ass.

                The day couldn’t have been more unproductive. This was no fault of Dean’s own—he had attempted to follow up on leads, but there was nothing to  be found. Irene Davis had indeed died in a car accident a few months prior, and the obituary mentioned the sad irony of her remission, but Dean knew better than to see that as irrefutable proof of Castiel’s involvement. Only shoddy journalism would equate a woman’s remission to possibly mystical elements.

                There was, of course, combing back through Ava’s blog, finding pictures and snippets following her diagnosis and trying first months. These all corroborated with the facts her personal doctor gave Dean when he called, and Doctor Barnes had assured him of Ava’s diagnosis, remission, and the complete impossibility of those occurrences. People don’t just reverse overnight, reverting to their original state—but Ava did.

                Dean wasn’t going to argue. While he had talked to Doctor Barnes, he had been looking her up online, and a quick search had revealed a woman who was sex in a lab coat. Admittedly, this was initially what drew him in, but her credentials were rock solid. Harvard, grants, fellowships—she knew what she was talking about.

                After that, what could Dean do? His only other lingering and unanswered question was who had tipped Castiel off, if not Ava, but Dean was coming up blank and had more important things to worry about at this point, so he let it go.

                He hears the click of heels approaching his cubicle and briefly looked up, looked down, and then looked up and gawped.

                “ _Jo_?!”

                “Don’t say a word,” she says, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to be indignant or gratified.

                “You—you’re—”

                “Actually dressed up for once, I know,” she says. Despite her forced casualness, it looks like she’s flushing a bit. Dean can’t help but look her up and down, taking in the tight, flattering fit of her black dress, the shiny and dangerous-looking stilettos, and the elegant twist of her hair.

                “What’s the occasion?” He finally asks.

                Jo buffs her nails. “Oh, you know, just doing a little undercover work. No big.” Before the end of the sentence, her smile is uncontainable. “Victor okayed it! I’m going to Bella Luchia tonight; I’m hoping my source will be there. Apparently Lucian’s right hand owns the club, so a lot of his men dick around there. Nice, right?”

                “Well, that will definitely get you through the door,” Dean says.

                “It needs to do more than that. I was about to leave, but I forgot to get something from my desk.” She leaves his cubicle for a moment, and comes back flashing her recorder at him. “Gonna stick it in my cleavage to smuggle it in. Hopefully I’ll get something juicy on there while I’m there.”

                “God, your life rocks. Strip clubs, VIP lounges, intrigue. _Strip clubs_.”

                “Sucks you turned down the story, Winchester. Any last advice before I go?”

                “Call your source Deepthroat. That’s what all the cool kids do.”

                “Fuck you, Dean. Just because it’s a strip club?”

                Dean can only shake his head in bafflement. “Dude, Jo, are you jailbait or what? You’ve never seen _All the President’s Men_?” Jo shakes her head, confused. “Watergate? Woodstein? _Robert Redford_?!”

                “Who’s that?”

                Dean makes a strangled, incomprehensible noise. “I can’t even look at you. That movie is the whole _reason_ I became a journalist in the first place!”

                If that was intended to place Jo within the context of her errors, she is unimpressed. “You became a journalist because this movie has a character named Deepthroat?”

                “You didn’t?”

                “Whatever, Dean. I’m actually gonna go do my job now. You can get back to staring at the wall with your Neanderthal face, pining for Deepthroats and the conman who depanted your stupid cover.”

                “Hey, I don’t—”

                Jo smiled, waved, and breezed out, heels clicking fast.

                Well. Jo learns from the best.  At least Dean now has an impression of how insufferable he must be when he has a good story lead.

**

                “Hey, Dean, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

                “What, a man can’t call his brother these days?”

                “Not when the brothers just ate lunch together six hours ago,” Sam says. “What’s up?”

                “Bear with me here. I can’t talk to Jo—she’s off kicking ass. So I guess you’ll do.”

                “Thanks.”

                “Sure. Okay, help me work this out. We have here a conman, age indeterminate, probably mid 30s. He’s awkward, nerdy, completely without social cues. He does nothing to get the public’s attention or interest. The two people I’ve talked to so far are convinced of his abilities—so much so that one of them even recommended me to him. So what am I missing? Most stereotypical conmen are flashy, obnoxious, over-talkative. They’re normally old pudgy white guys. They would be hard core mugging for some publicity—and when they would fail, they’d have some excuse for why it happened.”

                “Okay…so what? Just because he’s not your stereotypical conman?”

                “I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s part of the act or he’s really just that awkward. He’s just  so—so—”

                “Use your words, Dean.”

                Dean looked, frustrated, at the corkboard in front of him. He was home now, at the home office he rarely used, and he had scrounged up some thumb tacks so he could try to spread the work out visually in front of him.

                 CASTIEL, in big block letters, was in the middle. Branching off were names, and pictures if he had him. URIEL, AVA WILSON, BECKY ROSEN, IRENE DAVIS, MAN FROM THE BAR. Pictures from Ava’s blog, Davis’s obituary, he even tacked up the confidentiality contract. But the man himself—nothing. He covered up all his tracks. There was no past friends or family, no past cons, so past records. He didn’t have much.

                “I just don’t get what he’s doing that I’m missing. Ava Wilson, at least, seemed like a smart, happy woman. I thought at the least she was sticking to her guns because there was something between her and Castiel, but she said she found him ‘sexless.’ Which I just don’t understand, because the only thing he does have going for him is the fact that he’s, you know, a reasonably normal-looking person—”

                “Let me guess,” Sam interrupts. “Dark hair.”

                “I—what?”

                “Dark hair,” Sam repeats. He can hear the grin. “That’s why this guy’s bothering you so much. Admit it Dean, you have a bit of a crush.”

                “ _Sam_. Not even funny.”

                Because Sam’s an asshole who loves jokes related to his workplace—“Lisa, Cassie, Aaron, Eliot, Benny. I think the jury’s in.”

                “Great detective work. Name all the dark-haired people I ever dated.”

                “It’s a little more than that. The only people you ever _seriously_ dated had dark hair. Called you on your bullshit. Might have had an aura of mystery to them—oh, I forgot though, we were talking about your dark-haired, bullshit-calling, mysterious conman Castiel. Not relevant at all.”

                “Good thing I know everything about you Sammy, or you might just be Mr. Right,” Dean snaps. After an awkward silence, “That sounded way more creepy than I intended. I, uh, have no designs on your body. Just so you know.”

                “Reassurance is always nice. Look, I get that you want a good story, but I think you just might be reaching too much. If it weren’t for you puppy-dogging on Castiel—”

                “Am not!”

                “—I think you would have dropped this story by now. He has some for-hire bodyguard he’s probably paying in power suits, by the sound of it. His only other employee—and I’m using the term generously—is a high-school student with superior hacking skills that he pays with a wad of mailed cash. Does any of that sound like a big scam to you? I think, at most, he’s probably a low-level conman trying to scrape a lifestyle through means no more honest or less honest than anyone else.”

                “Well, okay then.”

                “Look, Dean, I’m not trying to ruin your big story. I just think maybe you’re not coming at it from the right angle. Are you sure it’s not, well, personal?”

                “For the last time—”

                “Not that,” Sam sighs. “I know you tried to protect me when I was little, and you were so good at it, but I wasn’t blind. I’d see those men coming to harass Dad for his money. They’d stop him at the sidewalk, come to the house at night. I remember.”

                “Jesus, Sammy. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

                “Because you were being my big brother, and I know that you didn’t want me to remember. We don’t have to talk about it. I’m just saying that maybe your…dislike…of people that are, you know, taking peoples’ money—”

                “They took advantage of him. Plain and simple. They knew what a wreck he was after Mom died, they knew he had no money to spare, and two boys who needed to be raised, and they never had the decency to stop him. Let him gamble himself into poverty. Fleeced him, sharked him, conned him—any way you cut it. So, yes, Sammy, maybe you’re seeing some similarities. I have a problem with people who are moral scumbags.”

                In the silence that follows, Dean can only hear Sam’s breathing on the other end. He leans away to drag his sleeve across his face, and then puts the phone back up to his ear.

                Finally, in a peacemaking tone, Sam says cautiously, “Well, I do know one thing that will help. Those two people you met, who believed he was the real deal? There’s a term for that. It’s called—”

                “Placebo effect.”

                “ _Jess_?!”

                “I’ve been listening in,” Jess says unapologetically. “I was curious about Dean’s crush. Hi, Dean, by the way.”

                “Hey—”

                “Jess, you really shouldn’t’ve—”

                “It’s fine,” Dean says. “What’s the placebo effect?”        

                “They use it a lot in medical research,” Jess says. “Give the actual pill to one group, for instance, and a useless sugar pill to the other group. When the sugar pill group has weirdly positive results, they call it the placebo effect. They convince themselves they ingested a helpful pill, and the power of the mind actually works. Temporarily, at least. So those two people might think now that they’re healed, because this Castiel said so, and it might actually appear to work for a while after, since they believe it. I don’t know. Sometimes doctors make mistakes. Ava could’ve gotten a false diagnosis to begin with, or an errant clean bill of health after seeing this guy, and _bam_. Placebo effect until she starts getting symptoms again.”

                “Placebo effect. Power of the mind. Got it.” Dean scribbles it down on a note and pins it onto the corkboard between AVA WILSON and MAN FROM BAR. “I’ll look into it. Thanks.”

                “No problem,” Jess chirps. “And it totally sounds like you and him would be a cute couple, Dean. I’ve heard you’ve always had a thing for _Magic Fingers_.”

                Dean’s indignant “ _Sammy_!” is lost in the roar of Sam and Jess’ laughter on the other end.

                “One time,” he rants. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut about the one time—!”

                “Sorry, it’s a great story,” his good for nothing brother says. “Well, it’s been a great talk, but I have some cases to review before tomorrow. Hope this talk helped.”

                “Yeah. Thanks. Bye, Sammy.”

                Sam signs off, and then Jess says in a menacing voice, “You’ve offended my betrothed’s honor with your shameless designs on his body. Tomorrow, sunrise, we will duel.”

                “Agreed.”

**

                Dean knows the routine now. Drive to Montclair Avenue, park on the street, ignore Uriel, walk in and find Castiel patiently waiting for him.

                With nothing else to do at the office, he shows up at Castiel’s about twenty minutes early. He sits in the car for a little, but finally decides that Castiel must not have anyone right now. He’s never seen anyone leaving as he comes in—figures that might even be a calculated move, so Dean can’t meet and grill any of his other clients.

                Bored, Dean gets out of the car and walks up the drive to Castiel’s house. Uriel isn’t just inside the door, which is another tip-off that no one’s expecting him yet. When he looks into Castiel’s parlor, Castiel is already sitting on the couch, engrossed in a book.

                “Sorry, I’m a little early.”

                Castiel’s head jerks up, eyes wide, lips parted—Dean only stares for a second, and then he follows the arc of Castiel’s hand, moving to hide the book that had just been in his lap.     

                “Sure, no, fine, please come in,” Castiel says. Dean can’t help but enjoy seeing Castiel being the one stumbling over himself, for once.

                “Whatcha reading there?”          

                “Nothing—nothing—you can sit down. We can begin early.”

                “Come on, this isn’t about past or family. Is it a book you’d recommend? Sharing is caring.”

                Castiel looks at him a moment longer, a faint flush high on his cheeks, and then sheepishly brings out the book from where he stuffed it between the cushions. _How To Make Friends For Dummies_.

                “Dude, seriously?”

                 “I know…I know I’m not the easiest person to talk to. I need to get better at it. Visiting with you has made me realize I need to get better at it.” He’s looking at Dean anxiously, awaiting his advice.

                “You don’t ask a book how to talk to people. Come on, man. Real-world application. If you need to talk to people, _talk to people_. Same goes for making friends.”

                Castiel looks down at his gloved hands. “I think it’s easy for you, Dean. So you probably don’t understand. I’m sure you make friends as soon as you meet them, and they all love you. But I haven’t had the…opportunity…to—for a long time, and now—” Castiel stops and shakes his head.

                Dean, for his part, is having a mini supernova going on inside his brain. He just can’t figure out what Castiel’s angle is. Why would the already strangely awkward Castiel stand to gain by making himself look pathetic and friendless in front of the reporter interviewing him? It’s not like readers would have much sympathy for him, at least not in the context of Castiel’s conniving, manipulative ways.

                So yeah, Dean has absolutely no clue the reasoning behind Castiel’s stunt, although maybe it’s a _little_ endearing in person.

                “Look, it’s really not that hard. Try to blink every once in a while. It wouldn’t kill you to smile a little more. And you bond over shared interests. You know, hobbies. Music, movies, books. _Not_ that book. Don’t even mention in a conversation that you actually had to read that book.”

                Castiel looks up at him and pauses, giving him a long blink with a studied furrow on his face, before saying, “I don’t have any hobbies. And I don’t really listen to music or watch movies. Should I start?”

                “Start? You mean you’ve been alive for thirty something years and you’ve never begun? What is with you today?”

                “It’s not just today,” Castiel says morosely. “And I do read. I started at the beginning, and now I’m at Sophocles and _Antigone_ and Homer. Once I make it through I can start movies or music or whatever’s normal.”

                “I can’t even—no. Not normal. I do not know a single person who has started at the beginning of the written word and worked their way up. This is why you have no friends.”

                Castiel flinches. “Oh.”

                Dean stares at him uncertainly. Maybe—in just this one area, of course—Castiel isn’t conning him. Maybe he really did have a strange past, and what with isolating himself in the present, and seeing people only as marks, he has no clue how to relate to others.

                It would make sense, just from the little Dean knows of him. The sparse rooms he had so briefly glimpsed his first day here seemed to attest to a man who had no tastes—a man who had yet to acquire them, maybe.

                Dean rubs his hand over his face. “Okay. This is not exactly how I pictured this appointment going, but just—practice makes perfect, dude. You talk to people. Look, you’re talking to me. And the more you do that, the more likely you are to make friends with people.”

                Something in that speech seems to perk Castiel right up. He gives Dean a small smile. “Okay. Good. Shall we, um, practice then?”

So Dean starts setting up his tape recorded and his notepad. Dean’s been thinking about the best way to get Castiel talking in a way that might make him inadvertently reveal something. He had to go back to the drawing board last week, when Castiel handed down all the things he was unwilling to talk about—those things that naturally interested Dean most. After a lot of thought, he realized the most Castiel had ever said to him when was he was explaining his powers for Dean’s benefit. So he decided to start there.

                “Tell me about the gloves,” Dean says, nodding to the hands currently curled in Castiel’s lap. “What’s the point?”

                “Oh. Precautionary measure, really. When I touch someone, I’m immediately overwhelmed with access into their thoughts and emotions—as are they. To a lesser effect, I’ve felt the gist of peoples’ emotions when I’ve come into contact with objects they’ve touched recently. So to protect myself, I keep the gloves on at all times, unless it’s a part of my appointment.”

                “What do you mean, overwhelmed?”

                “I don’t know what the experience is for them. I’ve heard that it’s disorienting, enough so that they often don’t return.” Castiel’s lips twist. “For me, it’s like a tidal wave of colors and feelings and sounds. It’s like I lose sense of myself and become a mouthpiece for the other person’s mind. I haven’t had adequate practice, I think, so I can’t stop myself from repeating everything I experience as it happens.”

                “An out of body experience then,” Dean says, but he’s stuck on Castiel’s admission about “adequate practice.” What sort of conman admits he’s less than experienced, not fully in charge of his supposed powers?

                He says so to Castiel, and the man only replies, “It’s an inexact science, I suppose.”

                So maybe it’s his failsafe when, and if, his clients realize Castiel’s promises didn’t come through. Then he can say he tried his best, but hasn’t mastered his powers yet.

                Castiel turns out to have a lot to say on the matter. Most of it has to do with Dean’s judgment of his profession. “I never went to college, so there’s no high-paying job that will overlook my eccentricities. And few low-level positions would accept an employee who either wears gloves all the time or starts spouting off all the thoughts of those he comes in contact with. This is the skill set I have. Do you expect me to give these skills for free, and make no profit for the only thing I’m capable of?”

                “Thousands of dollars is a little pricy, don’t you think?”

                “Find someone else who does what I do, and you can price match if you want. I alone know the toll that some of my procedures have, so I set a price that I believe is reasonable. From there I have no control over who is willing to pay that amount or not.”

                Dean shrugs and says nothing.

                “And,” Castiel says suddenly, “If you don’t believe that what I’m offering is worth the money, then you can always allow me to perform it for you. I don’t understand why you still haven’t.”

                “Unbiased reporting,” Dean says. “I’ll get there in due time for myself. First, I wanted to watch you do your schtick on another person so I could observe and take notes.”

                “And that will be—”

                “Our next session,” Dean says. Castiel looks surprised—well, Dean is too. But he’s made the decision, and now it seems like a good idea.

                Castiel, for all his hot air earlier, now looks like a rapidly deflating balloon. “But—but—”

                “Thought your powers worked at any time, hotshot. What’s the matter?”

                “You paid for eight more sessions,” Castiel says. “If I prove you wrong in the next session, then you’ll have no story, and you won’t come back anymore.”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “First, I’m not gonna be proven wrong. Second, I’ll well aware I forked over five thousand dollars. Trust me, I’m getting my money’s worth.”

                Castiel looks relieved, which makes no sense. “Okay. Who are you bringing?”

                “My brother, Sammy. Sam. I’ve, uh, already told him a lot about you.”

                Castiel glances away, fiddling with a button on his trench coat. “It would be really nice to meet your brother, Dean. I can already tell you’re very fond of him.”

                “Yeah, sure. Well, I’ll see you in a couple days, then. Get your beauty sleep for the big day.”

                Castiel nods, but then says, “Oh, Dean, wait. Your brother. He’ll have to pass a background check, and sign a confidentiality—”

                “Hey, Castiel. Cas. No worries. He’s my little brother. He’s my best friend. Just an overgrown kid who thinks he’s a big league lawyer. You don’t have to worry about a background check—he’s with me.”

                Only one part of that comment seems to stick with him. “Cas?” The other man questions. There’s a slow smile forming on his lips.

                “Yeah,” Dean says, and coughs. “Cas. People who talk give each other nicknames, you know. It’s not uncommon. Sam, Sammy. Castiel, Cas.”

                “Okay,” Cas says, looking up at Dean as Dean stands to gather his stuff and leave. “Okay, good. I’ll see you and your  brother next week.”

                Cas is still wearing that small, pleased smile as Dean leaves the room. Dean tips his imaginary hat to Uriel, who scowls on principle, and then leaves the house. Cas seems to think that he’s in thick now, that bringing family into the play means he’s got Dean wrapped around his finger.

                Well. Dean just got his plus one off the hook. No background check, sure, but more importantly—no confidentiality contract. That dope never did come back around to it. Now Dean can look forward to thoroughly catching Cas in the act, and then having a first person account for his story.

                And people say Dean’s just a pretty face.

**

                He gets a call from Jo on his drive home.

                “Hey! How’d the night on the town go?”

                “Dean?” Jo says. She sounds strange, too loud. “Dean, I’m driving home. I think someone’s following me. Are you there?”

                “I’m here,” Dean says. “Christ. Okay. You just left Bella Luchia?”

                “Yeah. I’ve been driving about fifteen minutes and there’s a big black town car behind me. Jesus, what do I do?”

                “Where are you?”

                “I’m West on Chesterford by Fifteenth Avenue—”

                “Turn right on Grange when you get there.”

                “Okay. Okay.” In the silence, he hears Jo’s breathing, the ticking sound of her blinker. “I turned. The car did too.”

                “Jo, it’s fine. You’re a new face there, and a lot’s been going on with Lucian’s crew. Turn left on Main.”

                “Well, where are they expecting me to go? Abaddon’s high-rise? The police HQ?”

                “Just somewhere that raises no suspicion. Did you turn?”

                “Yeah. I’m on Main. What now?”

                “Take it to the Hollis exit, then go through two lights and turn left on Neil.”

                “Dean, isn’t that—”

                “Where I live, yeah. I’ll meet you there.”

                Dean stomps down on the gas, and Baby’s engine purrs. He flies around two corners and through a yellow light, phone clenched between his knees, mouth grim. He pulls in front of his complex just in time to see Jo’s Toyota coming down the street from the other direction, with a long black car following at a distance.

                Dean throws the Impala into park and jumps out the door. Jo pulls into the space next to him, her face pale. She moves to get out, but Dean gestures for Jo to stay inside the car.

                When the long black car drives slowly past, Dean can’t see inside the tinted windows. He leans against his trunk, arms crossed, and glares until the car turns the corner. After waiting a few moments, he sighs and knocks on Jo’s window.

                “I think they’re gone.”

                Jo stumbles out of the car. Without her confidence, she looks younger, smaller. Dean pulls her into a hug.

                “It’s fine. Seriously. You probably caught their eye and they just wanted to scare you if they thought you were up to anything.”

                “Well, mission accomplished,” Jo says. “I thought they were gonna follow me home and blow my brains out.”

                “Don’t even. It’s not that bad. Look, they don’t even know where you live. And that’s all they’re gonna know, all right? They don’t  have shit on you. So you just have to go back and show them that you’ve got nothing to fear. Because that’ll make them think you have nothing to hide.”

                “Jesus, Dean,” Jo sniffles. “I don’t know if I can do this. What if I’m the next body at a warehouse? I’m lucky I even realized they were following me—”

                “Hey. Hey. Don’t talk like that. If you want to think about not doing the story, fine. But for now let’s get you inside. You’re spending the night.”

                Jo nods, turning around without saying anything to grab her purse and lock her car. They walk, closer than usual, up to the building and into the elevator.

                Dean loans her a pair of sweatpants and a t shirt of his. She looks comically small in his clothes, tucked in his king bed.

                “Need anything before lights out?”

                “Maybe a bedtime story, Mom,” Jo snarks. But then after a beat she says, softer, “I’m fine. Thanks for everything, Dean. Seriously.”

                So Dean goes to the couch, pulling an afghan over himself, and has some vague muddled thought before falling asleep that he feels bad for people with no friends, people who would have no one to turn to when they’re alone and need help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a long one!  
> tl;dr: cutiepie cas just wants a friend.   
> A big thank you to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! They definitely have helped motivate me to churn this out.   
> Next chapter: Dean brings someone to see if Cas lives up to all the hype.   
> Next, next chapter: Sam and Jess have a family dinner, Dean and Sam share their manly emotions, Cas was expecting a better reaction.


	7. The In-and-In

 

 

Dean brags to the whole office that he’s bringing his little brother Sammy with him to finally prove that Castiel is a lying, awkward sadsack.

                Then  he walks into Victor’s office and asks if it would be okay if one of his sources was an employee of the _Sun_.

                “Why’s that, Winchester?” Victor sighs.

                “Look, I’ll get more sources. I do have more sources. But instead of bringing someone random in off the street, who the public doesn’t know, I was thinking I could use someone here that readers already have some faith and credibility in.”

                “You?” Victor rolls his eyes.

‘               “No, not me! Well, me eventually. But for now, no. I know it’s unorthodox, but it’s not a normal piece. There will be other sources in there who are unknown and unaccountable and can say what they want regarding how he’s a good man or a bad con. Most are gonna be unnamed, that’s just the way it goes. And then I can have recognizable, reputable names in there too. Trustworthy people. What do you think?”

                “You and your New Journalism,” Victor says. “You know, take whoever you want. I’m sure you have your reasons. But a story with its only named source being a coworker is going straight to the recycle bin. You better have some other people lined up.”

                “It’ll be great, trust me. Thank you, Mister Editor, sir.”

                Victor’s phone starts ringing, so he makes a shooing motion and shakes his head at him.

                Just yesterday morning, Jo had rolled out of bed, helped Dean make breakfast, and stayed steadfastly silent as to whether she would be continuing her story or not. Dean knew she was scared—she had been expecting adventure, maybe, but not danger.

To be honest, Dean had been at a complete loss as to how to help her. He’d never seen her so mopey or depressed. So with Victor’s hesitant go-ahead, Dean figured he had a solution. She could have some fun, finally see Cas, and hopefully get her old competitive edge back by seeing Dean mid-story. And, yes, he was hoping that Jo’s killer perceptiveness and wit might be good enough to make it into his story.

                He’ll worry about finding non-biased sources later. Right now, the most important thing is getting her back on her feet. Now he just actually needs to ask Jo to come.

                He goes home at his lunch break and finds Jo vegged out on his couch, frowning at the TV. She’s been taking her sick days since her scary encounter, and had been only too willing to stay at Dean’s rather than spend nights at her apartment alone.  

                “Hey, Jo, I’m leaving to go to Cas’s now,” Dean calls over. “Do me a favor?”        

                “What?” She grouses.

                Dean pulls her blanket off. “Surprise! I’m taking you with me.”

                “No you’re not. You’re taking Sam. You’ve been motormouthing about it the whole past two friggin days.”

                “I know. It was a set-up. Cas think that I’m bringing Sam—and if anyone at the _Sun_ is looking out for Cas they’ll think I’m bringing Sam too. Last minute switcharoo—because I’m a genius. Come on. Victor gave it the okay. Let’s go.”

                He dumps her unresisting body off the couch, and drags her to his car.

                “Why would you want to bring me?” She asks as she buckles.

                “Because you’re a good journalist. You’ll be articulate and probably endearing when I quote you. And whether you like it or not, people are starting to know your name, kid. You’re the holy trifecta.”

                Jo doesn’t say anything. Dean still catches the curve of her smile as she looks out the window.

                Dean pulls the Impala into a spot in front of Cas’s with flourish.

                “Well, we’re here—”

                “Wait.” Jo’s craning her neck, looking behind them. “A black car just pulled in a few spaces behind us.”

                Dean turns in his seat, but he can’t see anything beyond the huge pickup parked behind him.

                “There’s a lot of black cars in the world, Jo. It doesn’t mean anything.”

                “Well, what if it’s some of Lucian’s crew again, tailing me? Maybe they were waiting outside your apartment for me to come out—”

                “Jo. Jo. You can’t let these people govern your every move. Yes, they probably followed you a few nights ago. But I never noticed a tail today—and not to pull the expert card, but I’ve had my fair share of them undercover. Sometimes black cars are just black cars.”

                Jo doesn’t say anything, just looks anxiously out at the rearview mirror.

                “Look, they’ve probably already forgotten all about you. You didn’t do anything after Bella Luchia that seemed suspicious. Now, let’s get inside and forget about it, okay?”

                “Okay.”

                They walk inside, but Dean notices that Jo looks over her shoulder a few times. Finally, they’re inside, and Jo’s shoulders drop in relief.

                Uriel’s eyebrow quirks when he sees Jo, but he says nothing, only nods towards the open door of Cas’s room.

                “Heya, Cas, change of plans,” he says. “Jo, Cas. Cas, Jo. I decided to bring her instead of Sam.”

                Cas’s face is doing a very strange thing when he looks at Jo, which Dean can only assume to be terror since he was expecting someone else. Finally, he says, “Hello, Jo. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re, um, Dean’s—?”

                “Coworker and friend,” Jo supplies. She is not so subtly taking in the full view of Cas, and when she turns to look at Dean, her eyes are a little accusing. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Dean didn’t tell me as much about you as he should have.”

                “Oh. Yes. Well, I’m in a similar position. Dean did not tell me much about his nice and, um, very pretty friend.”

                Dean feels secondhand embarrassment, if just for a second, because Cas has no game and he’s so awkwardly, painfully honest when he says that—face a little red, and his eyes earnest. It’s the kind of cheesy line Jo’s probably heard a million times in her life, comments about her attractiveness, but when Dean turns to share a “get a load of this guy” face with her, he finds her studying Cas with this strange tilt to her head, the way you’d look at a dog that’s caught in a downpour—heartbroken, and a little endeared.

                So maybe Cas’s signaturely awkward style when it came to talking to people and making friends could actually work on someone—Jo. Would wonders never cease.

                “Thanks,” Jo says, and lets Dean lead her to the loveseat opposite Cas. “So I hear I’m here for a little magical revelation, right?”

                “Oh, yes. Deans wants proof that I’m not lying about my abilities. So I’ll perform them on you.”

                “He’s just chickening out,” Jo says. “Has he tried to threaten you with The Law yet?”

                “On a number of occasions, yes,” Cas says, eyes flicking to Dean as he smiles. Prick.

                “That’s just his little brother, Sam. Don’t worry, he wouldn’t hurt a fly unless he stepped on it by accident. You’ll see when you meet him.”

                “I would love to,” Cas says.

                “Well, it will only make sense why Dean has a Napoleon Complex when you see his corn-fed brother.”

                Cas lets out a delighted laugh, just one “ha!” that seems to be as unexpected to him as to his guests. When Jo and Cas beam at each other, like some demented partners in crime duo, he feels the need to intervene.  

                “Good,” Dean says. “Introductions made, check. Jo cracks a handful of stupid jokes, check. Now, no time like the present.” He looks at Cas expectantly.

                “Now?” Cas says. “Okay, now.” He sits forward, shuffling his hands in his lap. “Jo, there a few things you need to know. It’s going to feel—strange. It won’t hurt, but it’s an invasive procedure. You’re probably going to feel my presence and panic a little. Just remember I mean you no harm; relax, and try to breathe normally. Don’t overexcite yourself. Most importantly, if you want me to stop, you need only think so or pull away. Either way, the connection only lasts as long as hands are on you.”

                Jo’s starting to look a little cautious, so Dean puts a hand on her arm and winks when he catches her eye. She smiles back, but still looks wary.

                “So you’re gonna know everything about me?”

                “No. Just everything you’re thinking right at that moment. Those and your feelings about it too. I don’t have the power to look into the things you don’t want me to know, not unless you’re actively showing me.”

                Jo doesn’t look much reassured, but Cas gives her another patented awkward smile and she shrugs. “Okay. So, uh, I guess I’m ready.”

                Dean leans forward and turns on his tape recorder, and then he and Jo watch as Cas walks over to them. For once, he doesn’t seem so nerdy—maybe because this is him in his element, performing the crux of his con. Cas is pulling at the fingers of his gloves, and Dean leans forward, eager to see—but there’s nothing special about his hands, not really, just pale and fine-boned, and maybe a little elegant.

                Dean scowls and decides not to write those observations down.

                Jo is watching Cas with growing apprehension, because by now they’ve both noticed that Cas seems to be completely confident, detached by his focus. Cas drops the gloves on the arm of the loveseat, and leans forward. He rolls the sleeve of Jo’s jacket up with a light touch, so that his fingers don’t even graze her skin. Dean thinks that’s a little forward, even proprietary—he does think to write that down—but Jo doesn’t seem to care, she’s staring up at him like she’s seen the face of God.

                Cas reaches out a hand to hover over her wrist. “Relax,” he says in his deep voice, and even though Jo didn’t flinch, it does look like some tension leaves her shoulders.

                Cas puts his hand down on her wrist, and then a lot seems to happen in the space of a few seconds, too much for Dean to scribble down. For the first millisecond—nothing. Jo seems to relax even more, no longer braced for something bad to happen. Cas’s face is impassive. Then Jo cries out and jerks, so suddenly that it’s startling, and at the same moment Cas stands suddenly upright, like a hook dragged him straight, and then he opens his mouth and starts talking.

                “Thank God—wait, what?—No, no, no.—The truth, he’s telling the tru—That time I cheated on a test in Professor Mil—That time I knocked that guy out behind the bar in—Jesus.—No, don’t think about—I cried the whole night after Dad left—Money, I stole money from Mom so Brody Holder would think I’m cool—No money, no money to spare.”

                Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Cas’s eyes had never seemed so bright, so electric, and now they seemed to shine as he gave this strange, monotonous speech, interrupting himself and relaying everything in these deep, impersonal tones.

                Dean’s eyes move from Cas to Jo, who has her eyes screwed shut and is shaking her head. As he watches, she gasps, her mouth opening in shock.

                “Black car, long black car—I’m too scared, can’t go back—Worthless—I’m fucking up—Never as good—Jealousy—Have to prove mys—Supposed to be Dean’s story—Dean—Dean can’t know—Don’t let Dean know that I—”

                “Don’t,” Cas and Jo say simultaneously. Dean has been so entranced by everything happening that for a second, he doesn’t know what happened. Jo and Cas are frozen in front of him—Jo’s pulled away, her hand gripping Cas’s arm over the suit, not touching skin. Cas appears to have clapped a hand over his own mouth, maybe to prevent whatever he was going to say next. They’re staring at each other, but Dean can’t understand their expressions.

                “Don’t let Dean know _what_?” Dean says. At the sound of his voice, they break apart. Cas turns away, pulling on his gloves efficiently. Dean sees Cas turn to look at Jo, but Jo’s looking away, not making eye contact with either of them, her face hidden by a curtain of blonde hair. Cas’s mouth pulls to the side and he turns away, returning to his couch with heavy footsteps.

                “Well?” Dean says. “Jo, did it work?”

                Jo finally looks up. When she meets his eyes, she looks—stricken. Guilty.

                “Aw, Jo, come on. Seriously?” No one says anything, and there’s no sound but the tape recorder whirring on the table and a car passing on the street.

                “Christ,” Dean says. He rubs his hand over his mouth. “Great. Come on. I’ll add deprogramming you to today’s list.”

                Jo seems eager to leave. She picks up her bag swiftly from the floor, and Cas stands up at the same time.

                “Jo?” He says. His voice is soft and almost shy. Jo doesn’t spare him the endeared-heartbroken dog-in-the-rain look this time. Instead, she practically runs from the room. Cas looks down like he expected that, but it still hurt—and then he turns to Dean, his arms hanging at his sides.

                “I hope she’s okay,” he says.

                “She’s more than okay,” Dean says. “Emotionally fragile right now—probably not the best choice to bring her—dude, how the _hell_ did you know I was bringing Jo and not Sam?”

                Now Cas looks annoyed. “I didn’t know, Dean. I just showed you that I can read minds, or weren’t you paying attention?”

                “Cute,” Dean says. He shoulders his satchel. “Look, I have a runaway emotional wreck to go clear off the highway. I’ll see you Tuesday, okay.”

                “Dean.” Cas has his hand half-outstretched, like he was going to grab his shoulder for his attention, but thought better of it. “Can you please tell her—tell her I’m sorry. I still do think she’s very nice. I didn’t mean to upset her.”

                “Sure, sure,” Dean says, but his mind is spinning with a lot of other crap beyond what Cas just said. How was Jo able to be taken in so completely? And why had she just run like a bat out of hell from Cas’s living room? Making sure Jo was okay was top priority, sure, but Dean was desperate to know how much of what Cas said was true—and how he had learned it in the first place.

                Jo’s standing against the passenger door of the Impala, pulling impatiently at the handle.

                “Can we _go_ ,” she says, when Dean finally comes out of Cas’s house. At least she’s temporarily forgotten her preoccupation with the black car parked a few spaces back—which, Dean sees, is still parked there, along with the pickup that was parked behind him earlier. Obviously just Cas’s neighbors.

                “Sure,” Dean says, affecting nonchalance. Even if he’s seething with questions for Jo, he’ll hold them back for a little while.

                “Where to?”

                “The nearest bar,” Jo says grumpily.

                Well, no argument there. After everything that just happened, Dean could use a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Dean, you beautiful tropical fish.   
> I'm gonna go ahead and overshare and say I GOT INTO GRAD SCHOOL!!! so I'll go ahead and write marvelous Cas and Dean gooey mushy moments that will not occur for chapters to come. And eat Samoas and watch Netflix and be really cool.   
> Next chapter: Jo doesn't like being questioned, Dean's the stuffing to a Sam and Jess sandwich, Cas is all like, why doesn't anyone know I'm a 10.   
> Next, next chapter: Dean and Cas are free to be you and me.


	8. Taking the Bait

 

An hour later, Jo and Dean are at a run-down joint called Callahan’s, consuming beer and onion rings in total silence.

                Finally, Dean breaks the awkward tension with an articulate, “So…”

                Jo snorts and throws her half-eaten onion ring back into the basket, which is a little gross, but Dean’s a big enough person to ignore that for now.

                “Go ahead, Dean. Knock yourself out.”

                “Look, I just want to talk it over. Rehash everything.” He gets his notepad and pen out. “Maybe when we relive it, new things will come to light.”

                “Sure,” Jo says. She crosses her arms. “Get to it, then.”

                “Come on. There’s no reason to be in a funk--”

                “My funk is fine!” Jo says loudly, which causes a few patrons to look over in her direction.

                “I never said it wasn’t!” Dean says hastily. “Look, let’s just start from the beginning. It seemed like you liked Cas when you first met him.”

                Jo blows out a long breath, still slouched in her booth. Suddenly, she leans forward, putting her hands flat on the table. “Dean. This isn’t what you want to hear. But Cas isn’t lying. He can really read minds. He just did.”

                Dean won’t let himself get distracted. “So you liked him when you first  met him?”

                “Yeah, Dean. Yeah. Your description didn’t do him any justice.”

                “For the last time, I don’t think he’s hot! I don’t know why everyone thinks I do. He’s one of those normally proportioned people, face-wise, and so what if I have a thing for guys with dark hair, just because _he_ does, and—oh.” Jo’s giving him one of her “you sad chump” faces. “Are you—what are we talking about?”

                “Anyways,” Jo says, after a deliberate pause. “In this line of work, you have to read people. Know when people are lying, or holding back. He’s not the bad person you painted him to be. For God’s sakes—he’s the kind of guy who would actually stop his car to help an old woman across the street, or spend the whole day mending a bird’s broken wing.”

                “Is that before or after he takes five grand from a dying man?”

                “I’m not saying he doesn’t have _secrets_ , Dean. Everyone does. If he’s being shifty about his past, which is what you’re basing your suspicions on, that’s one thing. But you can’t ignore the real problem here. You brought me there to prove he’s a quack, but he did just what he said he could.”

                “Fine. So you and Cas hit it off right away. Then he came over and touched your arm—then what?”

                Jo thinks about that for a long time. “It was like…when you maximize a picture on the computer. I don’t know. My brain suddenly expanded really big, so all my thoughts and feelings were just—overwhelming.”

                “Did you hear Cas?”

                “Yeah—he was saying everything I was thinking. And my first instinct was, like, ‘fuck, don’t think of the worst secrets you have.’ But that’s like saying, ‘don’t think of pink elephants’—what’s the first thing that pops into your head? So all my worst things just crowded in all at once, and you know what happened. He read my mind.”

                Dean picks at the corner of his notepad. “Yeah…”

                “He _did_ , Dean,” Jo said fiercely. “How else would you explain it?”

                “A lot of ways,” Dean says. “He has that girl—Becky Rosen. She could have hacked your email or looked on your Facebook, I don’t know. I still think he has a source at the _Sun_.That person could have told Cas everything about you.”

                “Don’t be such a dumb ass. Everyone at the _Sun_ , me included, thought you were bringing Sam. And you’re missing the point. Who could possibly know Jo’s Greatest Hits for the things she’s most ashamed of, if not me? He was bulls-eye for everything going through my head—absent father, poor childhood, my jealousy of my best friends, fear of death. I don’t exactly make Facebook statuses about that kind of thing.”

                Dean threw up his hands. “So he’s like Patrick Jane from _The Mentalist_! He guessed your greatest insecurities, give the guy some credit.”

                “No, give _me_ some credit. I’m telling you that he said aloud everything fucking thought I had until I pulled away. I’m saying he’s a nice guy who heard all my worst secrets, so it’s small wonder he has no friends because of that. I’m not changing my mind. So sorry if you think I just took a shit all over your story, but I’m telling the truth.”

                They sit in an awkward silence for the next few minutes. He sees Jo shifting restlessly across the booth, but she doesn’t leave.

                Finally, he says, “Jo. I’m sorry. I just don’t buy that this guy isn’t a con. I think he tricked you somehow, and I need to figure out how. I’m not dismissing what you’re telling me, it’s just—I don’t believe it that stuff. That supernatural, mind-reading hoodoo stuff.”

                “Fine.”

                “Jo, please don’t—”

                “No, really, it’s fine. I can wait. You keep on keeping on, and come back when he does the same to you, and we can talk again. Until then, I’m gonna go back to working on my story, which at least has the journalistic integrity of not trying to skewer an innocent man.”

                Dean opens his mouth—but then stops himself. This had been his intention all along. He wants Jo to gain confidence in herself, to not give up on her career-making story. He wants her to not be overcome by the not-so-small jealousies that can hurt her friendship with him.

                And really, there’s no more to be said. The line’s been drawn, and they’re both too stubborn to cross it. Jo and Cas on one side, Dean on the other.

                “Okay,” Dean says. He signals for another drink, and they finish their beers in silence.

**

                On Friday, Sam calls, frantic. He says Jess’s parents decided to come for a surprise visit, and why not just have the family dinner that night?

                “I’ll pay you—seriously—to get out of whatever you’re doing. Bobby wasn’t thrilled about the short notice but he said he could come, but I know they’d love to—”

                “I know I’m the cooler older brother, but I had no plans for tonight,” Dean interrupts. “Sam, you don’t have to bribe me. I said I wanted to come and I will.”

                “Thank _God_ ,” Sam breathes. Sam tells him there’s  a reservation at the Marble Inn for seven o’clock, that Jess’s parents names were Martin and Sue and to not wear his pants that smelled like cheese, _please_.

                The truth is—the one Dean doesn’t try to linger on too much, as he puts on a barely-worn suit and straightens his tie in the mirror—he never has plans on Friday nights, at least not often. He and Sam used to have poker nights, but those slowly faded away when he and Jess started seriously dating. He considers Jo one of his best friends—but he sees her five days a week, so they don’t go out much. Beyond that, there’s meet-ups and drinks when Benny’s in town, his old roommate and—yes—ex boyfriend, but they’re still good friends regardless, and Benny’s married to Andrea now, besides. Charlie, who he worked with at the _Tribune_ , has since left that paper, too, and works for a paper in California—closer to the two loves of her life, her girlfriend and the San Diego Comic-Con. Now he sees her four, maybe five times a year, when she’s in town to visit her mother.

                The guys at work will sometimes catch a drink, but that’s just as likely to be cut short, a glance at the watch and an announcement that the wife will probably want them back home.

                So, the sad truth is that people have grown up and paired off, the way they always do. Dean being a perennial bachelor is not something people are envious of, at least not at this stage. They opt for love and security and family, and Dean’s prowling the bars when he feels like it, entirely self-conscious that he might be getting a little too old for the scene. 

                For a moment his mind flashes to Cas, the other eternal bachelor he knows of, but it doesn’t  make him feel better. Cas probably has even less to do on Friday nights, this man who readily admits he has no friends, and not from lack of trying. Dean imagines Cas alone in his stripped and spartan living room, reading Socrates or, even worse, _How To Make Friends for Dummies_ , by the single bare lightbulb the room affords.

                The image makes him so uncomfortable he quickly thinks of something else.

                Half an hour later, all thoughts of Cas have long been forgotten as he begrudgingly hands Baby’s keys to the valet (he gives the boy the most intimidating glare he can muster when he has the audacity to whistle) and he walks into the swanky Marble Inn.

                Apparently everyone’s there already, so he smoothes his tie self-consciously and follows the host to their table.

                Ah, yes. Martin and Sue, middle-aged, slightly plump, and almost too friendly with Midwestern charm; Jess, radiant in white; Sam, staring at her with his mouth slightly open; Bobby, at his most happy level of grump, with a baseball cap still rebelliously shoved on his head; and—

                Dean, master of tact, says a loud, “Who’s _that_?”, because there’s a woman at Bobby’s right that he’s never seen in his life.

                Catching himself (not only because that startled Sam out of his starry-eyed expression to glare at him), he shakes his head and greets everyone at the table, ending with Bobby.

                “I’m Dean,” he says, holding his hand out to the woman.

                “Jody Mills,” she says. “Apparently my boyfriend hasn’t told you about me, which is nice. To recap: _that_ is his girlfriend.”

                “Sorry,” Dean says. “It’s nice to meet you.” He grins at Bobby, who shakes his head and  blushes red all around his beard.

                Bobby essentially raised Sam and Dean after John left when Dean was eleven. Since then, Dean has at least realized that was John’s last, selfless act towards them—to leave and make sure they weren’t drawn into his growing debts and the unsavory collectors who came with it. Bobby, an old friend of John’s, was able to legally adopt them by the time Dean was fifteen, but they had lived with him from the moment Bobby had found them, still waiting for John to come back, living off of a box of cereal and tap water. Bobby had saved them from the separation and hard knocks that came with a life in the foster care system, and for that Dean was eternally grateful.

                Bobby  had done much more than just keep them out of foster care. He had made them go to school and study, he made sloppy PB&J sandwiches for their school lunches even when he swore they could make it themselves, he shelled out what little money he had to buy Sam SAT prep books and Dean the car parts he needed for the old ’67 Impala they were fixing up together.

                While Sam was young enough to take all that kindness and not think twice, Dean was in some ways too much like his dad. He couldn’t stand to have Bobby give that much, he was sure Bobby needed paid back. When he was fourteen, he was delivering the local paper. At sixteen, he was their copy edit boy. At seventeen, he had gotten his GED and was writing full-time (Cow-tipping! Local elections! Hunting season!), so in time he was able to pay for Sam’s college applications, housing and books, which his full ride didn’t cover. All that he did because Bobby wouldn’t take the money directly.

                Dean would not hesitate to say Bobby wasn’t just a surrogate dad, he _was_ Dean’s dad. He knew Bobby loved him like a son. Sam said they had a strange relationship, because Bobby and Dean only talked once or twice a month, about little things like how Bobby’s shop was doing or the latest on Sam. Sam, of course, called Bobby weekly, was probably consulting Bobby as a wedding coordinator. His younger brother just didn’t get the relationship where two men both considered themselves to be something of a parent to Sam.

                That was okay. Dean visited Bobby once every month or so, helping out in the garage, repairing the deck, because grease and nails could show affection in the way Dean couldn’t. Dean and Bobby were able to crack a beer together at the end of the day, sitting in easy silence together like no time had passed since Dean left for Chicago. It might not be Sam’s version of a father-son relationship, but it worked just fine for Dean.

                “Dean?”

                He suddenly realizes he’s been spacing out, reflecting on his and Bobby’s relationship since Time Untold, and he gives a start.

                “Uh, sorry, what?”

                Sam rolls his eyes at him, but Martin and Sue laugh merrily like Dean’s the greatest entertainment in the world. Then Martin repeated his question—he wanted to know all about Dean’s job. He always looked for Dean’s byline, loved his style, and wanted to know what his latest story was about.

                Dinner passed smoothly. Dean certainly didn’t mind a bit talking about his job ad nauseam with a man who was a self-professed fan. Over dessert he was able to talk to Jody, learned she was the Sheriff, and she beat him to the punch and made her own joke about handcuffs. They made toasts to Sam and Jess until they were all rather red-faced and tipsy.

                Afterwards, Martin and Sue excuse themselves to the bathroom, and Jody and Bobby are _nuzzling_ in the corner of the  booth, so Dean hastily turns away and is caught by a double-whammy of concerned puppy-dog eyes.

                “Oh, Dean,” Sam slurs. “You are really the best brother.”

                “The best!” Jess corroborates. “You kept the dinner rolling along, you know. Rolling. Everyone you talk to just _loves_ you.”

                “Thanks, guys. So I’ve heard.” Which he has. It sounds eerily similar to Cas’s comment that Dean probably has the easiest time making friends.

                “But Dean, Dean, let me just say—I’m gonna say it. You don’t have to be a big brother anymore. No, _listen_. You’ll always be my big brother, Dean. But you’ve done _so_ much, you’ve sacrificed _so_ much, to make me happy.”

                “Yes,” Jess says. She’s looking at the side of Sam’s face intently, and Dean isn’t sure she’s following the conversation anymore.

                “You’re my best friend, Dean, _and_ my brother. But you don’t have to be all, you know, Mister Serious. Mister Moneybags. You protected me so much when I was little, and you paid for my school, and you’re just, awesome. And you…you deserve to be happy. You need to do stuff for yourself now, too. I want you to be as happy as I am.”

                Sam’s looking at Dean so earnestly, and Dean nods his head and smiles around the ache in his throat. His stupid, loving, big-hearted little brother. He’s not going to cry in the middle of the restaurant, he’s _not._

_“_ My best friend _and_ my brother,” Sam says again. “My Best Man…deserves a best man.” He attempts to wink at Dean, and Jess starts laughing hysterically, until her laughter starts getting punctuated by hiccups.

                Sam turns to look at his fiancée. “Your hiccups are fucking adorable,” he declares fiercely, and then they start making out.

                Dean’s still awkwardly sitting between two kissing couples when Martin and Sue return, smiling and looking a little ruffled. They leave the restaurant, exchange kisses, Bobby even bashfully pulls Dean close and mutters something about calling him soon.

                Sam and Jess get a ride home from Jess’s parents, Bobby and Jody hail a taxi, and Dean waits patiently for the valet to bring his car around. He’s still smiling a little to himself, thinking fondly about family and soon-to-be family, and the only way this night could be better is if he had someone to share it with, too.

**

                Monday is drudge day for Dean. He goes to the office and spends all day researching. He finds Uriel Mallach listed on a website for personal bodyguard services. There’s even a picture, suitably unsmiling. So no shady past with Cas, no history, nothing to show that they’re accomplices.

                He checks the deeds for Cas’s house on Montclair, but if he was hoping to find Cas’s full name, or his real name, there’s no such luck. It’s listed as being owned by GN Properties, which tells him nothing and he doubts they would reveal the name of their tenant renting from them, although he does call and leave a message.

                Jo isn’t there, although he’s assuming that’s because she’s pursuing her own story again. They had parted under better terms—driving back to his apartment and her retrieving her own car, promising to call if she thought she was being followed again.

                Tuesday is what he’s really looking forward to. Tuesday he sees Cas again, and he is determined to find out how he pulled a fast one on Jo.

                So, on Tuesday, Dean’s ready and prepared with his notepad and pen, tape recorder, and sparkling personality all shoved in his satchel. He takes the familiar route to Cas’s house, and realizes he’s once again about twenty minutes early. So he’s surprised to see the curtains move in the room where he and Cas always meet, and see Cas clearly waving him in, looking impatient. Well, okay then.

                Cas even opens the door for him.

                “Hello, Dean,” he says. “Would you like to start right away?” He starts leading Dean towards the meeting room. “I was  originally glad that you and Jo had the weekend to think over what happened, but it was a very long few days  when I was so anxious to hear.” Dean knows he’s staring a bit, but the level of familiarity and fluid conversation is not something he’s used to with Cas. This isn’t a house call, after all. It’s an interview.

                Cas, apparently has forgotten, because he’s chattering with ease and a slight smile on his face. “Jo’s better now, I would hope? I always try to warn people, but I still don’t think they’re prepared in the end. She’s okay, right?”

                “Er, yeah,” Dean says. “Jo’s fine.”

                “Good, good. I knew she would be. What did she say?”

                “That you unveiled all her darkest secrets.”

                Cas nods. “Unfortunately many people try to hide embarrassments and insecurities, so those are the first things that crop up in their head. So she believes me?” He’s still smiling a little, which Dean decides he can’t stand, because he’s being such a dick about turning Dean’s source against him.

                “Yeah, she does. Because you scared the shit out of her.”

                “I—” Cas’s smile falters. “I did? I didn’t mean to.”

                “Of course you did. She’d like to know how you know so much about her. The alternative is that you have someone tailing her, or bugging her phones, so she’s decided that you must read minds. Jo’s really upset that you just dragged up her biggest fears and broadcasted them.”

                So yeah, Dean’s laying it on a bit thick, but it’s worth it to see Cas’s smile slide off, replaced with a pained expression. “I don’t have anyone stalking her or tailing her. She’s perfectly safe.”

                “Well, good for you. I’m just saying, you might have terrorized Jo into believing you, but I think there’s more to it. If you’re not ripping people off, taking enough money that they have to believe you’re the real deal, then you’re emotionally blackmailing them, huh?”

                Cas has shrunk down into his couch, like a chastened child. “I thought—I thought you’d believe me now. That your story was done,” he says softly, which has absolutely nothing to do with what Dean’s talking about.

                “If the story was done, I wouldn’t be here,” he says harshly. “I’m not coming just for kicks.” Cas nods, not looking at him, and says nothing.

                “So, wanna tell me where you learned all the beef on Jo?”

                Cas takes a deep breath, and says nothing.

                “Was it Becky Rosen, or someone at the _Sun_? Did you hack her personal computer, or what?”

                “I don’t know what to say to you,” Cas says. “I demonstrated my powers for you, and you still don’t believe me. I don’t know what more I can do.” He looks up at Dean, and Dean hates how beseeching and sad his eyes are. “I can see you’re very protective of her. She must be a good friend to you. But you’re not going to get any answers on her behalf. I told you I read her mind, and I did.”

                Dean just shakes his head. It’s not like he expected Cas to reveal all his scams and tricks now, when he didn’t before. He was just hoping to rattle him, jar the confidence, and it looks like he’s accomplished that, at least.

                “I’m not a bad person, Dean,” Cas says quietly.

                “Is that why everyone you ‘help’ never wants to see you again?”

                Dean’s said a lot of things to provoke Cas, so he’s surprised this one gets a reaction. Cas pales, and blinks rapidly, and then he’s suddenly standing up and saying, “I’ll pay you back. Five hundred dollars, since this wasn’t a full session. I’ll—”

                “Whoa, whoa, hotshot, what are you doing?” Dean says. He stands up too, and since Cas is trying to flee the room, he catches the arm of Cas’s trench coat. “I paid for an hour, I’m here for an hour. What’s the rush?”

                Cas won’t look at him, his gaze flitting around the room while he tries ineffectively to tug his arm free. Dean has the feeling Cas could very well fly off if Dean wasn’t keeping a hold on him. “I don’t want to—I’m not going to talk about—”

                “Fine, fine, we won’t. God, calm down, okay? Let’s sit down.” He tugs Cas down on the couch and Cas tentatively follows. “What was that all about?”

                Cas, of course, doesn’t answer. He seems to be fascinated by the six inches of couch that separates them, because he’s staring intently at the space between their thighs.

                Dean sighs. “Look man, you’re right. Jo’s my friend, and I don’t like seeing her afraid. But I shouldn’t have said that. Okay? Let’s start over. You haven’t convinced me, not yet at least. I’m still writing my story, and you’re just gonna have to find another way to prove me wrong.”

                And Dean can’t really say why he’s suddenly being nice and compromising to the conman who he’s writing a full-length expose on. For God’s sake, his journalist instincts are telling him that Cas is exposing a weakness—so go in for the kill.

                And yet—Dean’s emotional side is telling him what he already know, that Cas isn’t like any conman he ever imagined, insecure and lonely, tripping over his feet in his eagerness to forge a human connection. Maybe he shouldn’t be baiting him with what he knows is the only real truth he’s discovered about Cas so far.

                And his logical side is only corroborating, telling him that Cas doesn’t necessarily have to entertain these visits at all. Maybe Dean shouldn’t be outright antagonizing him.

                “There, see, I was wrong. Are we all good now?”

                Cas cocks his head  a little, his gaze now traveling to Dean’s hand, still wrapped around his bicep. Dean wants to pull away as soon as he notices, but he’s still trying to defuse the situation. Cas looks up at him, and this close Dean can smell his aftershave, see every stubbled hair on Cas’s goddamned perfect jawline. He feels a hot something sweep up his body from his feet, but he doesn’t look away from Cas, determined not to lose this game of chicken.

                So Cas stares at Dean solemnly, like he’s weighing something that Dean is offering him. Finally, he says, “Yes, Dean, we’re…all good.” And Dean can’t help but smirk at Cas’s stilted speech, because he can basically hear Cas’s interpretative air quotes.

                “Do you want me to…um, show you now?” Cas says. He lifts his gloved hand, showing how he could place two fingers against Dean’s forehead, presumably to demonstrate his ability to read his mind. Dean pulls back, shaking his head.

                “No, man, like you said. This isn’t a full session. Let’s not worry about that yet.” Cas nods, and Dean finally releases Cas’s arm and rubs his hands on his thighs.

                Dean thinks about what Cas has inadvertently revealed to him these past few sessions. A new direction—not Dean’s rapid-fire questions and hostility, but easy conversation and curiosity, not cruelty, regarding Cas’s supposed abilities. You get more flies with honey, and all that. Maybe Dean’s approaching this the wrong way.

                Maybe Dean can con Castiel, and not the other way around.

                So he doesn’t move from his spot next to Cas on the couch, instead he leans against the arm and gives Cas an open, friendly smile. “We have some time to kill. Wanna just…talk?”

                Cas is staring at Dean like Dean just grew a second head.

                “What did you do over the weekend?” Dean blazes on conversationally. “I went out to dinner downtown with my brother Sammy and his fiancée—they’re getting married. Marble Inn, ever heard of it? Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

                Cas is wringing his gloved fingers in his lap, but Dean knows he hasn’t read the situation wrong, because Cas has this hungry, almost disbelieving expression on his face when he looks at Dean.

                So Dean talks for a while, telling him about Sammy and Jess and Bobby and Jody, and Cas listens. Cas asks some timid questions, and Dean answers. He almost doesn’t even realize when the hour’s up.

                Dean’s still pretty smug when he leaves, and that only increases when he sees Uriel glowering out the front window at the cars parked across the street.

                “You see the black car?” Dean says, and Uriel jumps and turns around.

                “What do you mean?”

                “The black Impala, it’s mine. You jealous of my ride?”

                Uriel considers him for a long moment, and then nods his head. “Yes, I am jealous,” he finally admits. “Very…jealous.”

                Soon Dean’s gonna have Cas eating out of the palm of his hand—less hassle, less work, and Uriel can barely keep it in his pants over Dean’s car.

                Dean’s whistling when he gets into his car and cranks the engine. Right now, he can do no wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, guys. There's no way this could blow up in Dean's face, right?  
> I know, I know. It's crazy that I haven't updated in three whole days. A huge thank you to everyone reading and finding enjoyment in this story!  
> Next chapter: Dean 'n Cas have a night on the town, but there's an unforeseen complication on Dean's part.  
> Next, next chapter: Dean has a eager Cas perform some mind reading...on Dean.


	9. Mister Gullible

  

 

                Dean can’t feel bad about conning Cas when he’s finally getting the results he wants.

                All he has to do is show up, smile, nod understandingly, and that’s all the encouragement Cas needs. If all Dean needs to do is engage the guy in a generic conversation, he doesn’t see that as much of a sacrifice.

                And yeah, Dean can admit, it’s more than just mutually beneficial. The past meetings he had with Cas had more tension, more hostility as he picked apart everything Cas had to say. Now that he knows he has the upper hand, it’s nice to relax and slowly draw Cas out into the open. Easy conversation, easy victory.

                In their last meeting, Cas seemed genuinely surprised that Dean was still being nice to him. After a little coaxing, though, Cas sang like a little bird. It might not be quite the stuff he wants to hear yet, but that will come. He gets Cas to talk about the times he failed, was unable to heal people, and how he doesn’t know why. Many of the occurrences happened when he was younger, he said. He didn’t have as great a grasp or understanding of his powers then.

                Cas likes to talk about his theory on profound bonds. He mentioned it about five times too many in their last meeting. A little shyly, without meeting Dean’s gaze, he mentioned that he thought the mind-reading wouldn’t be quite as overwhelming if Cas and the other person were familiar with each other. The problem was, he posited, that he only met with many of his clients anywhere from one to four times total. Inevitably, he would learn more about them than his casual acquaintance with them required, and he was sure that was why he never heard from them again.

                He speaks haltingly, hopefully, of a belief that a stronger bond with a person would minimize the effects, and maybe over time a simple touch would not elicit the uncontrollable surge of another’s emotions and feelings flooding into him, powerless to stop. Maybe a simple touch would just be a simple touch, and all other side effects would be irrelevant, ignored, background music.

                In the past Dean would have rolled his eyes or made some cutting remark. Why the hell was Cas jabbering on about the bad side effects to his “powers” all the time, right? Now, even when he wasn’t quite sure what Cas was getting at, he nodded his head and smiled. Amazing how a little good will could make someone open up.

                Now, they were just nearing the end of yet another meeting, and Cas seemed to be stalling, trying to draw out a few more precious moments.

                “What are your plans for the weekend?” He asks.

                Dean shrugs. “I’m more spontaneous; if someone calls me up I might do something. As for tonight? It’s been a long-ass time since I could just sit back and drink a beer in peace.”

                “Ah,” Cas says. “You’re going to a bar?”

                He said “bar” like this was some strange, novel term, possibly from a foreign language.

                “Maybe. Know any good places around here?”

                Cas looks apologetic. “I think there’s one on Fairview, I don’t know whether to recommend it. I’ve never been a bar.”

                At this point Dean just shouldn’t be surprised anymore. What’s more interesting is Cas’s reaction—his suddenly flushed cheeks and guilty expression. “It’s not that—I wasn’t trying to say you should take _me_.”

                Dean hadn’t thought that at all, truth be told, but the opportunity’s there. If Cas doesn’t go to bars, if Cas doesn’t drink, some liquor lubricant might help him turn into even more of a Chatty Cathy. Plus, who knows what might happen if Cas is put in a crowded room, people that could be brushing up against him, touching him?

                Dean lets a slow, almost— _almost!_ —flirtatious smile spread across his features. It’s worth it to see Cas turn an even brighter color. “What would you say if I did want to take you?”

                “I, um, I—” Cas’s eyes are bugging out of his head. Apparently he has no social etiquette rules when it comes to accepting or declining invitations. Finally, he says, “I have no other plans tonight.”

                “Perfect,” Dean purrs. “How ‘bout I go home, take a shower, get a change of clothes, come back here and pick you up? Does that work for you?”

                Cas gulps. “Yes, yes that does,” he ekes out.

                Dean doesn’t end the moment right away. They stare across the room at each other—him oozing confidence, Cas looking like he just got knocked upside the head. Then Dean nods and stands up.

                “Great. Be back in about an hour.”

                On the drive home, Dean starts to have some second thoughts, but the plan is already made at this point. It would be a dick move to stand Cas up at this point, especially when the poor guy was so worked up about it. Not that he was standing Cas up like it was a _date_ , or anything.

                No. It was just that Dean was trying to walk the fine line between conning Cas and being a professional. There was nothing so bad about being friendly to a source; journalists took them out to lunch sometimes, plied them with wine. The fact that his niceness was completely contrived was deceitful, but not rule-breaking—and it was yielding results. But Dean didn’t want to come out of this situation feeling like he made a hairy mess of it. He didn’t want Cas to get ideas that they were anything more than a journalist and his target. Cas might have let slip that he had a severe lack of friends, but at the end of the day Dean was trying to write a story, not fill a gap.

                He dithered in front of his closet longer than he thought he would. The plaid? The tight t-shirt? Dress shirt rolled up to his elbows? _Why does it matter_? He grabs the signature plaid, whips on his dad’s leather jacket, and hits the road again.

                When he pulls in front of Cas’s house again, the street is dark and quiet. He wonders, awkwardly, if he’s going to have to walk up Cas’s drive and ring the doorbell. Only a second later, though, Cas is waving at him, locking his door and making his way across the lawn.

                He pauses at the passenger door.

                “Well, I’m not opening it for you,” Dean says.

                “Oh,” Cas says. “So I have your permission to—”

                “Get in the car.”

                Cas slides in.

                “Hi, Dean,” he says. He sounds a little breathless. “You have a beautiful car.”

                “Er, thanks.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cas rubbing the leather seat on either side of his thighs, reverently.

                “Where are we going?”

                Dean checks over his shoulder as he pulls out onto Montclair. He may or may  not catch a whiff of cologne from Cas’s side of the car as he does. Jesus Christ. “Um, I was thinking we check out that place on Fairview you told me about.”

                “Okay. Fairview’s two lights up.”

                They were saved from an awkward silence by the soft strains of music from Dean’s radio, until Cas says, “Thank you for inviting me out, Dean. It was very kind of you.”

                “Hey, man, it’s seriously no problem. It’s kind of my job to introduce you to normal life experiences at this point.” Cas says nothing, but it doesn’t matter, because a squat building with a sign that simply says BAR is already coming into view.

                “Nice call. Looks just like my kind of place.” Dean parks the Impala and drops his keys in his pocket. Yep—a perfect dive bar. The sidewalk is decorated with cigarette butts and there’s a man shotgunning a beer as he stumbles out the door. Beautiful.

                He turns to see Cas exiting the car, but under the glare of the streetlight he sees the ghastly omnipresent trench coat.

                “Wait. Hold up. You’re not wearing that.”

                Cas frowns down at his outfit. “What’s wrong with it?”

                “What’s wrong is it’s a night out on the town and you look like the shady guy who always lurks in the adult film section. Come on, take the coat off.”

                Cas looks perturbed, but he still obediently shrugs the trench coat off. Dean balls it up, opens the Impala door, and throws it between the two front seats.

                “All right. Man— _seriously_? The suit?”

                “Should I have changed that, too?” Cas sounds grumpy, but then he’s inhaling sharply when Dean invades his space, pulling at the knot of his tie and whisking it off his neck.

                “No _tie_.” He deftly undoes the top two buttons of Cas’s shirt. “No _buttons_. This isn’t Antique Road Show, Cas. Dress for the occasion.”

                Cas, of course, says nothing. He’s staring up at Dean, not moving, but Dean realizes soon after that’s still a symptom of him holding Cas by the buttons on either side of his collar. He hastily lets go, and then after some hesitation he slides off his leather jacket.

                “Put this on. It might distract from the accountant vibe I can’t save you from.” Cas takes the jacket gingerly.

                “Dean, are you sure?” Like Dean just offered him a kidney.

                “Just put on the damn jacket.” So Cas does, sliding in one arm and then nerdily trying to find the other sleeve behind his back for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Dean forward and tucks the balled-up tie into the jacket pocket.

                “Yeah. There we go,” he says. Then he leads the way into the bar.

                Inside, there’s a long scarred bar, some pool tables, and a line of booths against the wall. Dean jerks his head towards an empty booth and watches in amusement as Cas gawks around.

                “Like what you see?”

                “I think so.” Cas sits down on the opposite side. Maybe it’s the dim lighting, or the smoky atmosphere, but Cas is suddenly looking a lot less like an accountant. His hair is all mussed, and the leather jacket—well. It’s only because of the leather jacket. Everyone looks hot in one of those.

                Dean would normally just go up to the bar and order what’s on tap, but he starting to enjoy Cas’s wide-eyed appreciation to the novelty of the situation—and Cas is either a very gifted actor, or the most innocent conman in the world, because he’s still staring around the bar in awe. Dean assumes it must be somewhere in between.

                So Dean makes a big show of picking up the sticky drink menu and flipping through the IPAs.

                “Whatcha in the mood for, Cas? Don’t worry, my treat. How about…” he scans down the list, and one name jumps out at him. “How about this one? It’s from Bond Brewing, see? It’s like it was meant to be.”

                Cas squints at him.

                “Bond Brewing….profound bond? Come on. You’ve been talking about it all week.”

                Cas looks pleased. “You’ve been paying attention.”

                “Yeah, part of the job description. One second.” He returns a few minutes later with two bottles in hand. He twists the cap off of his, and then Cas does too. They clink bottles, and then sip in silence.

                Cas makes a small grimace as he pulls his wetted lips from the bottle. “It’s…an acquired taste,” he says doubtfully. Dean laughs.

                They make some small talk as Cas slowly finishes off his beer. His eyes grow brighter, his cheeks go pinker, and his hair even seems to get a little wilder. They talk about the Bulls, but Cas admits he’s never seen a game. They talk a little more about Sam and Jess’s impending wedding—Cas has never been to one of those, either.

                “So tell me,” Dean says. “No bars and barmaids, no weddings and bridesmaids. Where are you picking up all your chicks?”

                Cas gives him a disapproving look. “I don’t go anywhere to ‘pick up chicks.’”

                “Right. So you’re Mister Magnetism, they all come to you. And then you tell them how they like it, huh?”

                Cas’s head quirks to the side. “We’ve been over this, Dean. No one likes having me in their head. I think they’d like me in their head even less during a sex act.”

                Dean almost spit-takes his beer. “Are you saying what I think I’m saying?”

                Cas might be too drunk to feel shame, or he just honestly doesn’t care. He observes Dean’s reaction with a resigned shrug. “It’s been made perfectly clear that my gift drives away long-term companionship. I’m assuming by ‘picking up chicks’ you mean one-night stands, but that’s just a recipe for disaster. There can’t be any casual intimacy if I know all of their most intimate secrets.”

                “So you’re a virgin?”

                Cas picks at the label of his beer, but he doesn’t look away. “I am.”

                “You’re a thirty-something year old virgin…in everything?”

                “Thirty four, and yes. It’s not just my hands, Dean. Those are just the parts of the body that we consider publicly acceptable. Anywhere my skin would touch another’s…well. It certainly limits my ability to connect with another person.”

                “And you’re not _bothered_ by that?” Sure, Dean’s been growing up and wiser and has been thinking on lonely nights that he might want something more than sex—but not in replacement of it. He has a healthy appreciation of that, as known as too well by Sam, Jess, Jo and his previous partners.

                “Of course I am,” Cas says. “I’m well aware of what I’m missing out on. But where does the list begin? I can’t have a lover until I have a friend. I can’t have a friend until someone is willing to undergo that invasion of privacy and accept me anyway. And _that_ —” He stops himself, and takes another drink of his beer.

                He’s also looking a little imploringly at Dean, like he wants Dean to catch onto something, but Dean’s caught up his own thoughts. What’s the benefit for the conman to make himself look like an inept, pathetically single virgin? This is just basic fodder for Dean’s story, the easiest characterization he can give—just the words “thirty four year old virgin” will relentlessly turn him into a laughingstock.

                Maybe because Cas doesn’t think Dean will use anything he says right now. The way he’s drinking and talking so openly, he seems to think this environment is different, safer. Dean feels a little bad about that—the conman thinks he’s off the clock, even if the journalist isn’t.

                He can struggle about the ethics of using this information later. Now, he looks up at the bar and sees a cute young blonde draped across her stool, staring in their direction. Well, Cas’s direction.

                “All right, let’s see it in action,” Dean declares. “Look, see that girl over there?” Cas turns in his seat with drunken difficulty. “She’s obviously checking you out. Why don’t you go talk to her?”

                “Dean,” Cas says in a patient voice. “I’m speaking from experience. I’m socially awkward, I can barely keep a conversation going, and the moment we touch—”

                “ _I’m_ not speaking from experience. Come on, just try it out for me.”

                Dean thinks Cas will refuse, so he’s surprised when Cas drains the rest of his beer and leaves the booth with exaggerated care.

                Over at the bar, the blonde woman sits up straighter at his toddling approach and gives him a wide, flirtatious smile. He can’t see Cas, just the back of his head, but he can see the woman giving Cas an endeared, amused smile, like Cas’s hopeless ability to flirt was somehow cute.

                See, maybe it’s not as hard as Cas thinks.

                Right when he thinks that, the woman leans forward to whisper something into Cas’s ear. Dean watches as Cas suddenly stands straight up, and whatever he says causes confusion, fear, and anger to flash in quick succession across her face. She shoves him away and disappears into the crowd.

                Cas turns and bops towards Dean, hardly looking fazed. “Told you.”

                “What did you say to her?”

                “She was saying something about calling me daddy, but when her lips touched my ear she was really thinking about how I reminded her of her estranged father, who worked for the post office. I couldn’t help but repeat it—I think I scared her.”

                Cas shrugs while Dean stares.

                “Seriously?”

                “Seriously,” Cas says. “Like I said—I know what they’re thinking, and they know, too. They can feel it as it happens. It’s not something I can hide for long.” Dean doesn’t think Cas seems bothered, though. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk after one beer, or maybe it’s because he’s so used to rejection at this point. Maybe it’s because this time, he had someone to return to, to commiserate with, that made the woman’s fear and anger easier for Cas to handle.

                Dean drops some bills on the table and climbs out. “Well, we better get out of here before she gets the bouncer on us. Bouncers in these places are normally taller than Sam and smell three times worse.”

                “Okay,” Cas says. He trips along lightly next to Dean.

                One beer didn’t even touch Dean’s tolerance, so he thought nothing about sliding into the Impala to drive Cas back home. Next to him, Cas was fidgeting out of Dean’s jacket, laying it carefully on the console between them. The drive back was just as silent, but no longer awkward.

                Dean killed the lights in front of Cas’s house. “So, that was more fun than I thought. I hope you liked it.”

                “I did,” Cas said, his teeth flashing as he grinned. “Dean…thank you. Again. I—I’m incredibly grateful—”

                “Dude, don’t. It’s fine.”

                “Okay, Dean. I’ll see you on Tuesday, Dean.” His words are running together in a drunk’s liquid slur, and Dean doesn’t doubt that Cas is going to wake up feeling strange tomorrow. He opens his mouth to suggest hangover tips, but then, Cas is leaning forward in the darkened car—

                And Dean’s not going to lie, he’s expected this. The blushing and the awkwardness and the fumbling words about profound bonds and friendship. He’s expected it despite his job, despite being professional, because Cas is clueless and unassuming and his eyes are so earnest and sad. So he leans forward a little, blood pumping hot, and parts his lips, and—

                Cas grabs his trench coat from behind the gear shift. “I better go in, now. Goodnight.” He’s smiling goofily as he opens the door, feet shuffling as he slams it shut. Then there’s a hazy wave and he’s drooping up his front lawn.

                And Dean’s still sitting there, lips parted and inviting like a fucking idiot because _Cas was never going to kiss you, you fucking nimrod_.

                For the longest time, Dean sits there. Does he feel rejected? It’s been a long time since he’s felt that.

                Anger pulses in his gut.

                Okay, no. Not rejected.

                He’s—pissed. Seriously pissed. The more he thinks about it, the more pissed off he becomes. This whole time he thought he had Cas wrapped around his finger. No, no. Cas was wrapping _him_ around _his_ finger, because Dean let his guard down and thought he could give being nice the good ol’ college try. Cas wasn’t opening up, he was _seducing Dean_.

                All of that—that had been a careful manipulation, a turning of the screws. Cas wasn’t revealing his embarrassing secrets to be honest, it was so Dean could underestimate him. So Dean would take pity on the poor friendless, loveless virgin who reads books and is only trying to help the sick and dying.

                And the worst thing of all—it had worked! Had Dean even questioned Cas once during that whole trip to the bar? He had actually felt bad about taking advantage of Cas there, but what a crock of shit. _He_ had been the idiot—sitting there and sympathizing as Cas talked about the intimate fallouts of his _nonexistent mind reading powers_ , he hadn’t even _thought_ to track down that blonde that Cas talked to—the one who _wasn’t under contractual obligation to not talk to him_ —and find out what Cas really said to her. No, he went along with it like a gullible, pathetic idiot. Oh yes, Castiel, your life is so hard. Let me pay for your beer. Let me get to know you and feel bad for you so I won’t write the story anymore.

                And now Cas was walking into his house, _smiling_ and _laughing_ , because—who wouldn’t? Dean had sat there and just puckered up.

                “Get your head in the fucking game, Winchester,” he snarls. Lately he’s been so smug about finally figuring out the way Cas ticks, but really he was the one getting conned. He invited Cas out to a bar. He picked him up at his house like it was fucking prom night. Worst of all, he’s been putting off actually doing his job—actually having Cas perform his supposed powers—because he’d been enjoying their meetings.

                He’d almost let Cas get away with his scam again, and barely noticed it. Well. He was gonna rectify _that_ as soon as he saw him next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean, you dear sweet nimrod, indeed.  
> Thanks to all my lovely readers and reviewers, as always!  
> Next chapter: Dean forces Cas's hand, and Dean's true feelings are revealed.  
> Next, next chapter: Jo deserves an apology, Dean and Cas aren't the same, Victor is not too pleased.


	10. Sleight of Hand

Dean rage-researches over the weekend and through Monday, both at work and at his apartment. Hours in his study, lit only by the bluish light from the monitor, typing in any possible variation of _Castiel_. He needs to find someone else like Ava, but not someone with good things to say. Someone from his past, maybe before Cas was in the habit of using contracts and bodyguards. Someone who can speak freely about Castiel’s scam and not be sued into oblivion.

                Nothing comes of it, of course. But Dean doesn’t give up. Cas has only been in Chicago for a few months—so maybe he was operating under a different name. So then he’s trying _healer_ and _mind reader_ and anything else he can think of, but the results are wide and varied.

                Dean’s not put off; his anger doesn’t lessen. Every time the rational part of him reminds him about unbiased reporting, the other part gives him the humiliating flashback of leaning forward for a kiss in the car (a pity kiss, of course, throwing him a bone), and Cas climbing out the door, laughing at him.

                It didn’t help that, on Monday, he sees Jo for the first time since their sort-of fight, when Jo claimed Cas was telling the truth. Jo had been hyper and elated, zipping around her cubicle in a frenzy, hair a flying riot of curls.

                “Dean!” She called out. She’s wearing another tight dress, high heels—too wired to pretend she hates it, too. She catches his arm as he walks to his own desk. “Dean, you’ll never guess!”

                “Guess what?”

                “I got _this_ shoved into my purse last night at Bella Luchia.” She removes a folded piece of paper from her bag, and hands it over to Dean.

                In cramped, scribbled writing, _You’re looking for Lucian’s whistleblower. Find me at 10:15 behind the sound stage and you’ll see her._

                “‘Her?’ How does she know that you know?”

                “I’ve being discrete, not stupid,” Jo shrugs. “I’ve been subtly asking around, you know, wide-eyed and innocent about these warehouse deaths. But you were right, Dean! Lucian might not be screwed over by his own men, or not _just_ by one of his own men. There’s a woman in the organization who’s helping to topple him. And this is my big chance!”

                “And I bet she’s willing to talk—anonymous 911 calls have been serving her so far, but you coming to her, plus an anonymous interview with the _Sun_ …that would fuck Lucian over best.”

                “I know! Dean, this is great. I feel so—Woodbert right now.”

                “Woodstein.”

                “Yeah, Woodstein. Undercover gig, femme fatale tipster…if I can work this angle, Dean, this is gonna be _huge_. Victor might just marry me.”

                “That’s great, Jo, really, but…”

                Jo’s curls deflate in the awkward silence. She snatches back the crumpled note and shoves it into her desk drawer. “But what?”      

                “I’m not trying to be the wet blanket, okay? Just—long black car, possibly being tailed by his men? I’m glad you’re back on the story, I just need to know you’re being cautious.”

                “I am being cautious, Dean,” Jo says fiercely. “Look, Bella Luchia is gonna  be packed with people at that time. The area behind the sound stage will be plenty busy. It won’t look suspicious for two people to be having a talk together, and it will be so loud we won’t be overheard.”

                “Okay, good. Um, just call me when it’s done, okay? When you’re home safe. Just so I know.”

                “Sure thing, papa bear,” Jo says. She snatches her keys and purse up from her desk, and turns back to Dean, still lingering in her cubicle. “What’s with the face? You and Cas have a lovers’ quarrel?”

                Dean grimaces. “ Shut up, and no. Everything’s fine. Cas is the same. You know. Annoying and dishonest and ruffled and stupid and squinty and shit. And he had the nerve to—”

                Jo held up her hand. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I really don’t care, because you’re still trying to gotcha-journalism his sweet ass. Until then, I’ve officially decreed I’m not gonna talk to you about it.”

                “Come on—”

                “Nope. Nuh uh. I think you’re being really pig-headed about this, and you’re gonna feel like an idiot when Cas shows you he isn’t lying.”

                Dean decides not to mention his plan for the next day in the face of Jo’s irritation. “Wait, hold up though. So you’re gonna stick in Cas’s corner for this, but would you agree to see him again, because he claims no one—?”

                Jo brushes by him. “Hey, Dean, I have a better question. If a tree falls in the forest, is it all Cas’s fault?”

                Dean makes an undignified face to her back as she sashays away. Finally, before she reaches the elevator, he calls out, “Be safe, kiddo.”

                He knows she doesn’t want concern or lectures. No matter how worried he is, she’s doing this to prove to herself, to prove to him and everyone else, that she’s just as qualified and capable. No one would ever baby Dean in a similar situation. He feels he owes it to Jo to do the same.

                “Enjoy the desk job!” Jo calls back, and the elevator doors close.

**

                The plan is, really, no plan.

                Dean doesn’t know what to expect from Cas, what supposed dirt Cas has dug up on him to make his mind-reading hoodoo schtick seem legitimate. The only thing Dean does know is Cas isn’t getting to prepare, not this time.

                The only plan for his non-plan is to continue to act exactly the way he was the last time they saw each other. Cas can have another few minutes feeling smug and condescending, sure that he’s tricked Dean, and then Dean will nail him. Metaphorically.

                So Dean can suck it up (metaphorically) for a little while longer, let Cas think Dean’s completely smitten. And then the story can finally, finally gain the traction it needs.

                So, when Dean passes Uriel, he gives him a smile so wide it must be showing off his molars, and Uriel frowns backs. He’s sure that Uriel must know all about it, that he probably was yukking it up with Cas about Dean’s attempt to steam up the car with the resident conman. Whatever. Uriel wouldn’t be laughing when Dean ran his employer out of business.

                Dean turns the corner and Cas is waiting patiently for him on the couch. Well—not quite _patiently_. Something has changed in Cas since the first time Dean met him. He used to sit stolid and silent and reserved, face blank and impassive. Now he drums his fingers on his knee, and when he looks up and sees Dean, his eyes are bright and his smile is sweet.

                “Hello, Dean,” he says. “Did you have a good weekend?”

                Be nice. “Yeah, Cas, it was great. Lots of vegging out, surfing the Web. You know.”

                Cas probably didn’t know—in fact, Cas looked like Dean just spoke in strange tongues.

                “Sure,” Cas says. “I do.”

                “You have a good weekend?”

                “Oh, it was the same as usual,” Cas says. “I felt kind of strange Friday morning, though. I had a headache, and my mouth tasted strange. Is that normal after one beer?”

                “It’s not unheard of,” Dean hedges. “I, uh, was thinking we could do something different today.”

                Cas beams. “Will you be introducing me to other new things? We could go to a concert, or the zoo, or maybe an _amusement park_. Somewhere inexpensive, and you wouldn’t pay this time. I have money.”

                Dean’s jaw works for a moment, and then he shakes his head. “I was thinking more along the lines of something new for me. I was thinking today you could take a walk in my mind palace.”

                Cas looks nonplussed.

                “You could, you know, read my mind,” Dean says easily.

                Cas’s face does a complex aerobic maneuver of emotions, too fast for Dean to follow. He doesn’t look nervous, not yet at least. Maybe a little wary. “Why now? Why today?”

                Dean shrugs. “You’ve been talking up this whole profound bond thing an awful lot, and Jo’s mad that I don’t believe her. So why not prove it once and for all?”

                “And when I do prove it…you’re still going to come back for the rest of your sessions?”

                “Yes, Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “We went over this. I’m sure we’ll have plenty to talk about. This isn’t just about the story anymore.” He doesn’t add that he’s looking forward to those sessions mostly so that he can triumphantly shove  it in Cas’s face. Hey, Cas will figure that out for himself in a few moments if he’s all he’s hyped up to be.

                “Okay,” Cay says. “Do you want to…now?”

                Dean nods.

                “Okay, now,” Cas says. He’s not looking at Dean, he’s pulling at the tip of his leather glove, sliding it off his hand. “So, when I touch you, you’re probably going to feel strange. Your first instinct will be to block anything you don’t want me—”

                “Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Heard it all before. Come here and put your hands all over my body.” He’s still trying to hold back on the contempt, but right now he’s forcing his words out between a gritted-teeth smile. Cas needs to stop stalling and end the charade already.

                Cas pulls the other glove off and lays the pair delicately on the arm of his couch. Then he stands up and walks across the room to Dean. Now he does seem a little nervous.

                “Dean—”

                “What?” He barks. He’s on edge and antsy and wants this done with. The last thing he needs is Cas finding some stupid reason to back out and delay it. He was complaining about a headache earlier. Maybe Cas will fake a headache to get out of performing.

                Cas pauses. “Just—just remember. To stay calm, and tell me to stop if you want me to. I don’t want this to change anything.”

                “Don’t worry,” Dean says. “I guarantee this is not going to change the way I feel about you.”

                Dean’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and instead of putting his hand on Dean’s wrist, as he did with Jo, Cas gently slides the material of his sleeve up. He puts his hand over Dean’s bare shoulder.

                And Dean feels smug, because he feels nothing but a large warm hand against his skin.

                And—

                “Son of a bitch,” Cas tonelessly says, his eyes gleaming blue and strange. “Jesus Christ—abort mission. Don’t let Cas know—”

\--Here’s the thing. Jo had explained it well, but Dean still wasn’t prepared. It’s like his mind had expanded into the size of the room, had mushroomed out into its own universe. He felt like every inch of him was a flayed, live wire, and Cas’s hand on his shoulder was more than just a warm pressure. Cas’s hand was a black hole, a drain, and his thoughts, usually so small and containable, were screaming past and around him, unable to stop. He stood in his mind the way a tourist stands in Times Square, with his thoughts flashing by like billboards and sirens.

His first reaction was to hide his deepest fears, his secrets and shames, to bury them in layers of thought, but as soon as he knew this, he also called them to mind. They raced by him like trains, too big and too powerful to stop, even as he tried to throw himself in front of them. They sped by and he heard, as if from a great distance, Cas intoning them aloud, deep and slow.

“Don’t let Cas know—He’s right. I’m gonna have to scrap my story—Jo’s story will run. Losing your edge—Probably get fired—Surprised you lasted this long, Winchester. Had everyone fooled—No big brother worthy of looking up to—Not that it matters, Sam’s moved on. Sammy’s moved on—Wants me to get my own life, I don’t have my own life—What am I supposed to do if I’m not looking after Sammy. It’s only Sammy. Only Sammy.”

And it’s excruciating, hearing every flawed and awful thing he thinks about himself, hates about himself, repeated aloud, uncaring by this virtual stranger. Word vomiting his darkest thoughts, and he’s helpless and—scared.

“No job, no brother—can’t even pick up the phone to call the person who’s the closest thing to a father—too much like my Dad—He was alone, and he just couldn’t give it up—Didn’t know when to quit—He wouldn’t approve—Dark hair, blue eyes—Wouldn’t approve—I’ll end up like him, gone and not missed.”

Did he lead Cas to this most intimate part of himself? Or did Cas find his way there? Because Cas barrels on, uncaring, turning the lights on and sweeping out all the dark, tender corners of Dean’s mind. He doesn’t care about what Dean doesn’t want anybody to know, he doesn’t care that Dean’s helpless and scared.

“This isn’t—I don’t like—no dad, no brother—no mother. My fault. Mine.—The candle in my room. Afraid of the dark. It tips over in the night, and the curtain—And dad says, ‘take your brother’—And mom’s still inside, the candle and the fire—She’s still there—”

Dean’s thoughts are still screaming and colliding like a fireworks show, but now there’s one, big, ugly thought that’s lumbering forward, gaining momentum. He’s not helpless. He’s not scared of Cas. He knows how he really feels.

“Get out of here—get out. You—” Cas’s voice becomes louder, nearer, aware. “You hate. You _hate_ me, you _hate me_ —”

Dean comes up for air like he was drowning, his head is heavy and aching, his shoulder is burning. He doesn’t know where he is, or how long he’s been there, when he hears a loud _thump._ Across the room, Cas hits the wall. He’s tugging on his gloves with shaking hands, and his eyes are wide and panicked.

Dean’s staring at him, goggling really, his head still blaring and buzzing, when the door crashes open and Uriel’s there. He takes one look between Dean, sprawled out on the loveseat, and then over to Cas, pressed against the wall.

“Leave,” Uriel says. “Now.” He takes one threatening step into the room, glowering. But Dean can’t look away from Cas, his awful expression. He doesn’t notice Uriel until he’s grabbed by the collar, dragged bodily from the room, tossed out the front door.

He stumbles to his car. Slides in. Somehow the keys get into the ignition.

Right now he has more questions than he can count, but has no company, no answers—right now, everything is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers, just remember how lovely you are.  
> Is anyone thinking about shotgunning some Haterade? I hope not. But, to explain:  
> I had this chapter planned from the beginning. I honestly think Dean was not expecting Cas to be telling the truth, and so Cas charging right past Dean's cocky front, and into his secret fears and self-loathing, would be shocking and scary. Dean's initial reaction would be to push away, and dislike, whatever's doing that.  
> This is one of the scenes I was thinking of when I tagged "Misunderstandings." Fear not, I'm far too impatient for them to make out, too.  
> Thanks, as always, to everyone reading and commenting!  
> Next chapter: Jo's in the thick of it, Victor still wants a story, Dean feels conflicted and awkward upon seeing Cas again.  
> Next, next chapter: Jo scores an important meeting, Sam's a good listener, Cas makes a late-night phone call that changes everything.


	11. Pick Your Pocket

Dean never does hear from Jo. It’s not until much, much later that night that he realizes she was supposed to call him. So he tries to contact her, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

He goes to sleep with a weight like a rock in his stomach, and when he wakes up he feels no better.

At the _Sun_ , Jo’s not in her cubicle, and that’s when he really starts to get worried. She’s normally here first, sometimes with a coffee for him if she’s feeling generous. But her cubicle looks exactly as it did the day before, when she was leaving in a whirl of excitement to go meet her source at Bella Luchia.

He stands up and looks around the geometric patchwork of cubicles spread out across the floor. “Anyone seen Jo?”

A few heads pop up like groundhogs, but no one does anything more than shake his head or squint in aggravation.

He catches Victor on the way into his office. “Victor—we need to talk. I think Jo—”

“Winchester, good, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Come on in.” Victor closes the door behind him and walks around to his desk.

“Can that hold off for a moment?” Victor quirks an eyebrow at where Dean is still standing by the door, but he doesn’t move to sit. “Look, I’m not sure if Jo’s in trouble or not. Last night—”

“Last night she called me on her way home from the police station.”

“ _What_?”

“Which I will be more than happy to elaborate on in a few minutes. So, she’s safe and sound, and you relax for a few minutes, okay? Sit down.”

Dean sits.

“So you’ve been working on this story for a few weeks, now. I’ve been giving you some space but I’d like to hear a progress report. How’s it going?”

Dean rubs a hand across his face. “Um, good, you know. Pretty solid. Which is to say, there’s been a sudden turn of events I need to incorporate. By which I mean, the story might not end up written, after all.”

Victor’s eyebrows had been making a steady climb up his forehead, and by now they’re near his hairline.

“You’re scrapping the story?”

“Well—yes. Because the angle was supposed to be, you know, manipulative conman who takes advantage of dying Chicagoans—what’s not to love, you know? But now—”

“Now, nothing,” Victor says, cutting him off. “I don’t know if you recall, but I gave you five thousand dollars for that story.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean sighs.

“Do you? That’s not pocket change, Dean. So let’s talk about this, and I’ll decide whether the story should be cut or not. What’s changed?”

Dean fidgets, because he has so not wanted to have this conversation. But Victor’s his editor, and what he’s asking for is well within reason. “Okay, so I took Jo to see him, remember? And Cas—um, Castiel, claims to mind-read in addition to healing peoples’ illnesses. So I asked him to perform the old Legilimency on Jo’s noggin, and he did. He read her mind.”

Victor’s face doesn’t move. “Really.”

“I know, I was skeptical, too. I talked to Jo about it afterwards and she was convinced he was saying everything she was thinking. I told her he must have tricked her—you know, done some background, primed her to think certain things, I don’t know. But then…well, I had Castiel do the same thing on me. And he’s not lying, Victor. He really did read my mind.”

Victor continues to just look at him, which might explain why Dean feels compelled to keep running his idiot mouth.

“There’s no other way he could have done it. He said things that no one  but me knows. I know, I _know_ it sounds crazy. But it’s true. So not only are his claims accurate, but everyone I have talked to has confirmed that he did actually heal them. So there you go—he can read minds, he can heal the sick. So why don’t we just call it off now, and I never see him again, okay?”

 Victor steeples his fingers. “While you, Winchester, may want to leave off your investigation in the face of discovering Jesus 2.0, I am definitely not convinced. Firstly, you have done nothing to prove to _me_ that this Castiel did actually read either of your minds. That’s what conmen do, Dean. They make you think they can do impossible things. They convince you even in the face of your skepticism.”

“I know what conmen do, Victor!” Dean snaps.

“Good, because one just successfully conned you. So, let’s talk this out. You’re Chicago’s ‘most trusted voice,’ the award-winning face of the _Sun_ , the established name of journalistic integrity. And you want to tell people that you had your precious skull cracked by a two-bit Kreskin wannabe?”

Dean flinches. “Well, no, I don’t want that.”

Victor snorts. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. So, we have two options going forward. One—you get your head out of your ass and realize this guy played you. Delve deeper. Find out how he did it. Dig up the dirt you haven’t been able to find so far. Bury this guy so deep in dirt that you make muck-raking look like a polite pastime.”

Victor fixes him with a look. “Two—take a chance. Tell the audience that you, too, were susceptible to Castiel’s scam. It could swing your way, show how dangerous guys like him are if we have a ‘It Happened To Me!’ from the poster boy for legitimate journalism.”

“You know what’s not going to be in your story?” Victor continues. “A sincere belief that Castiel actually read your mind. He could have tricked you, sure, but you sure as hell better not come off believing it. Because you’ll look like a fool, and you’ll make the _Sun_ look like more like the _National Enquirer_ , and I’m not letting that happen.”

Dean wants to get on board, really. Nothing would make his life easier. Except—he knows that Cas didn’t trick him. He can remember the moment with vivid clarity. No one  could have faked that, no one could have made his skin jump like he’d received an electric shock, or his mind expand like a helium balloon. No one could have known those things about him.

Victor isn’t pleased with Dean’s hesitance. “This isn’t negotiable, Winchester. I gave you five grand for another award-winning story. Since I’ve invested both time and money, I’m not letting you drop this.”

“Yeah, I—I’ll think about it. Decide what angle to take. I’ll run it by you when I do.”

Victor opens his mouth, but Dean waves his  hand. “I don’t know yet, okay? I haven’t seen the guy since he read—um, since I thought he read my mind. And it will probably be really awkward, because we didn’t exactly part on good terms—”

“My guitar gently weeps for you,” Victor says. “Really. So, you go see this guy again, pick your poison, and report back to me. Understood?”

“Yeah. Understood,” Dean says, even though a massive pit is opening in his stomach. Victor’s word is law, the book has been closed, and he’s feeling guilt prickle up his spine, too. Victor dismissively turns to his laptop. “Wait, what about Jo?”

“I saw her walk in while we were talking about your mid-career crisis,” Victor says. “I’ve wasted enough time on you today. Go find out yourself,  wonder boy.”

Dean bows himself out, but doesn’t focus on any thoughts about Cas—not yet, at least. He instead runs down the hallway of cubicles until he reaches Jo’s.

“Jo—what the hell? You never called me, Victor said he got a call from the police station—”

“Hello to you, too,” Jo says. She’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, has dark circles under her eyes, and looks unreasonably smug. “Where’s the fire?”

“Fuckin’ hilarious, “ Dean snarls. “What’s going on?”

“All right, I’m sorry, calm down. Last night was pretty hectic and I forgot to call you, okay? I’m obviously fine.”

Dean pointedly leans against her desk and folds his arms. “I’m glad. Now mind telling me what happened?”

Jo sits forward in her seat, looking more serious. “I think I’m on to something big, Dean. I just don’t know how big yet. When I went to Bella Luchia last night, I went behind the sound stage like the note told me to, and everything seemed fine. It’s really shadowy and dark back there, and a woman approached me and asked me to go into the back staircase with her.”

“Jesus, Jo—”

“It was fine. Listen. I couldn’t see her that well, but she was small and slender and had dark curly hair. She was wearing the uniform that Bella Luchia staff wears—I think she works there. Anyway, she told me that she knew I’m a journalist. She admitted to tipping off the authorities about the dead bodies, but said she didn’t kill them herself. She wouldn’t tell me who killed them or why she wanted to screw Lucian over so bad.”

Jo bit her lip. “Things got a little hairy after that. She said I couldn’t keep coming to Bella Luchia; people were getting suspicious. She didn’t want to get with caught with me. She said her boss needs to keep a mole in Lucian’s camp and I was threatening that secrecy. I got the feeling her boss wouldn’t be too against bumping me off if I was getting in the way.”

“We heard people coming into the stair well and the girl ran off. A bunch of Lucian’s men found me and were really suspicious as to how I found myself off in a private staircase. They must have recognized me from before, which didn’t help. I was told never to come back. They ran me off and were following me to make sure I got the message. I led them to the police precinct to get them to fuck off, but then the police were curious as to why I was gunning into their parking lot at 65 miles per hour. So they took me in and I explained the whole story—even called Victor up to corroborate. Then they had me talk to one of their detectives who’s covering the whole Lucian drug bust, so I ended up staying there for hours.”

“Busy night, Jo.”

“It was,” she says. “Too bad I’m gonna have to be creative when it comes to finding my mole again. I’m not going back to Bella Luchia unless I have a death wish.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Dean says. “Maybe things will slow down after this.”

Jo gives him a patronizing look. “Slow down? Things are just beginning. I didn’t tell you the biggest part—she said she was worried. Lucian’s men were talking about how they’ve found a surefire way to catch out the mole. She doesn’t know how or when, but they’re closing in. I have to find a way to help her!”

“You just said you weren’t—” Dean begins, because there’s a difference between Jo going somewhere under dangerous conditions and Jo going under deathly ones.

“I’m not. I’m going to have to go in from different angles. The scraps of other drug cartels that Abaddon’s decimated—some in jail, some trying to make it alone. I could find people willing to talk on the East Side. Abaddon’s people themselves might have something to say about Lucian’s cartel—which is the  biggest thorn in her candidacy so far. I have a lot of options to explore right now.” Jo’s grinning again. “This story is really becoming big, Dean. I have to go now—Victor wants to talk to me about what I’ve got. He’s saying it could be front page—possibly big enough to multiple front pages. We’re talking serial. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Jo, that’s awesome,” Dean says.

She beams and gets up, stretching. “All work and no play these days. Guess that’s my burden for hitting it big, right?”

“Right,” Dean says, watching her leave.

There’s a strange twisting sensation somewhere deep in his stomach. He meant to tell her about Cas, that she was right all along. He meant to apologize and talk out his feelings about it with the only other person who could understand. He had also meant to be excited for her, that she was meeting with Victor and the story he deemed not Winchester-worthy could break her into the spotlight.

He meant to do a lot of things, but that strange sensation seemed to act like a weight on his tongue, too. It’s been a while, but he’s familiar with the taste. He thinks it might be jealousy.

**

Dean woke up Thursday with a feeling of dread. At that moment, he would have agreed to do the story about children with cancer in a heartbeat. World Fair coverage. The woman who owned the fattest cat in Chicago. Anything except going to see Cas again.

He can’t imagine how awkward it will be. Cas, a virtual stranger, knowing those buried things he never wanted anyone to know—all his careful layers peeled back, exposing the raw and vulnerable self he never meant for anyone to see. No one was ever meant to know the extent to which Dean Winchester is a selfish, clinging faker.

He slouches through getting ready, putting off leaving as long as he can. Every time he reminisces about something else he says, something that Cas now knows, he winces. Having no life beyond his brother. Being afraid his best friend will surpass him, when she has worked so hard to get where she’s at. Jesus—did he reveal his stupid, baseless crush on the guy? He thinks he did. How _mortifying_.

There are other things he could think about, too. How Victor still wants a story to rake Cas over the coals, even though Cas is telling the truth. How he told Cas he hates him, got thrown out. He carefully doesn’t think about those things.

When he arrives at Cas’s house, he feels twitchy and rubbed raw. He half-wonders (half-hopes) if Uriel won’t let him in now. But no, of course, Uriel isn’t even there when he needs him. The front hall is empty, but for someone’s phone—Uriel’s probably, since Cas mentioned he doesn’t have one—sitting on the decorative table at the foot of the stairs.

So he squares his shoulders and walks into the front room to see Cas, determined to act like everything’s the same.

Of course it isn’t. He knows that as soon as Cas looks up and he freezes in the doorway. Cas looks—Cas looks awful. His hair’s a wreck, he’s unshaven, and his eyes are like two bruises. Cas looks up and then away again.

Dean realizes he’s still in the doorway. He’s waiting, he realizes, for the invitation. Cas normally says, “Hello, Dean,” doesn’t he? Now he says nothing.

He awkwardly crosses the room and unloads the contents of his satchel. Normally, he would feel the weight of Cas’s eyes as he does this, too, or maybe Cas’s heavy-handed attempts at small talk. Nothing. He sits down across the room and sees Cas just as was, staring down at his lap.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “So, I realize this is gonna be strange. Let’s just head this off by saying, I know you know the most intimate parts of me. It’s weird, okay? But let’s just be professional about it, pretend it never happened. First order of business—I’m still here, see? My boss still wants me to finish out this story. At least now, though, I, well, I believe that you’re telling the truth. So I have to admit everything up to now has been a little biased.”

Cas is still doggedly not looking at him. He’s slumped on his couch like this is the last place he wants to be. Well, join the club.

“So, to ease back into it,” Dean blabbers, “Maybe we can start back from the beginning, and I can revisit some of the topics I didn’t have an open mind about before, okay? I want this story to do you justice, I—”

Shit. He’s not handling this well at all, and Cas knows everything, anyway, what’s a little more truth? “My boss thinks you’re a lying conman still, obviously. So that’s what the story is gonna try to out you as. He gave me two options—bury you in dirt, or make it seem like you managed to fool me. But, if you give me back the five thousand dollars, the whole story can just be trashed, and we’ll all come out--”

“I don’t have the money,” Cas says. His voice is hoarse, and he’s still not looking at Dean. There’s an awful half-smile, not a smile at all, twisting his face. “I spent it already. It’s gone.”

Well, shit. And there was another of Dean’s assumptions, too—that Cas had been so busy scamming his clients that there was no way he was hard-up for cash. He scrambles for alternatives.

“Oh, okay, well full-steam ahead then. At least now, um, I believe you, so the story will at least be more neutral. I gotta tell you, beyond no one else believing that you could actually read minds and heal the sick, everything else is in your corner. The people I’ve interviewed have all agreed that you did the service you paid for. So maybe we can brainstorm which angle—”

“Do whatever you want, Dean,” Cas interrupts. “You want to dig up dirt? Dig up dirt. You want to make it seem like I fooled you? Well, then, I did. I don’t care. I don’t.” Cas is staring down at his hands, his gloved hands in his lap, like they are some alien, separate entities from himself.

“Well, that’s great and all, except I can’t, and that’s not true—”

Cas’s eyes can’t seem to make it up past Dean’s knees, like they’re weighed down something heavy, but he drags his gaze there and holds it. “Fine. I release all confidentiality contracts, then. You find my former clients, they can talk all they want, and you can quote them on it. I’m sure you’ll find an unhappy one somewhere in there, scared and willing to talk. I’m an easy target, and they can appear in a newspaper. That should make it easier.”

Dean is staring. He can’t help it. “Um, is there a reason you’re trying to screw yourself over?”

“It doesn’t matter, Dean. I knew as soon as you walked in here four weeks ago that my time here was limited. Oh, you gave me hope for a while there, saying there’d be no story if I proved you wrong. But I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this all along.”

Dean can’t help but interject there. “Look, my editor is making me—it’s not like I was _lying_ when I said—”

“You’re missing the point,” Cas says loudly. He’s finally raised his head, and his eyes are direct and dark. “Don’t you see? I’m not saying anything about _you_. You’ve been doing your job. I was the unprofessional one, I made assumptions that weren’t mine to make, for thinking there was more to this—more to you and me. _I_ was wrong. And now—”

Cas breaks off, his gaze pivots away. Dean thinks he should be saying something, but instead he’s staring at the muscle that jumps in Cas’s cheek.

“Now?”

“Now there’s no point in dragging this out,” Cas says softly. “Do you think this hasn’t happened to me before? Maybe not the newspaper, maybe not the _Sun_ , but I get run out of town, sooner or later. It doesn’t matter that I took precautions this time. What matters is the things I do aren’t parlor tricks or game. They help just as much as they hurt. And no one wants that near them.”

“Okay, let’s just please calm down for a second,” Dean says. “I get that things are—weird right now, but we don’t have to chalk this up into your career suicide—”

“Why not? You’ve made it clear that if you don’t write this story the way your editor wants it, it’s _your_ career suicide. And it’s so, so easy to make me into the bad guy, Dean. Your boss is making you write this story because there is no gray area here—he gave you money, and I’m obviously a conman. It will be the easiest story you’ve ever written.”

Outside, in the hall, the insistent, annoying trill of a cell phone is going off, and it fills up the silence while Cas stares at his hands again, and Dean just stares. This is a new person, a new Cas—one who’s hurt and lashing out and has been here many times before.

He’s reaching this big, obvious revelation, one that, perhaps, is too little, too late. He’s being handed another career-defining story, one that Victor and the public would lap up, and the subject of the story doesn’t even care that the price is on his head. Cas says he’s done this many times before, so why should Dean care if Cas is willing to do it one time more?

“Look, man, this just isn’t sitting right with me,” he says. “It might be black and white for my boss, but I know you’re telling the truth. You shouldn’t have to just roll over, just— _leave,_ and that’s that.”

“Like I said, Dean,” Cas says. “I’ve been expecting this. It’s okay.”

Dean imagines how easy it would be to pack up and leave this half-lived in house. How Cas would need only gather up his books and clothes and he’d be gone, lost, the thief in the night that Dean always took him for. Like Cas purposely lives like that, wherever he goes, never daring to presume he would stay long.

“I can’t—I think you’re having a bad day, okay? I’m—shit. I’m not gonna talk to your former clients, I’m not gonna listen to lies about you. I paid for ten appointments, so we’re gonna keep on doing that. Your voice should matter too, Cas. What you have to say is just as important as what anyone else would say.”

Cas doesn’t seem to appreciate that, though. He slumps down on his couch even more, weary. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you next Tuesday, then.”

Outside the room, the cell phone goes off again. Dean spares it a brief, annoyed thought, before focusing on Cas. Dean, after all, was the one who didn’t want to see Cas today. Cas knows everything about him now. Knows him better than Bobby or Sam or Jo, knows him inside and out, flaws and all. Why does it seem that Cas dreads seeing him just as much?

Dean packs up his unused notepad and pen back into the satchel. He turns to go, and turns back. Fuck, this is awkward. “Um, I don’t know, but I did want to say—sorry. I don’t actually, um, hate you.”

Cas shakes his head, and the look he gives Dean is knowing. It makes Dean flush, because he knows, too, they both know—they felt the surge of pure _hate_ that had crashed through Dean’s whole body, the angry red loathing that had pulsed bright in his mind, hot and sudden and vicious, a hate that could make Cas stumble across the room, shocked and afraid. (Just for a moment, Dean knows. It was only a moment, one second, that he hated, _hated_ Cas).

“Dean, _don’t_ ,” he says. “You don’t—no one should ever have to apologize for the way they feel about me.” Cas abruptly turns away, and Dean stares helplessly at his back before turning to go.

What more is there to say? This entire time he thought every comment was a barbed hook, every smile was bait. He thought Cas had been condescending and competitive, but no—he had been nothing  been genuine, making clumsy and awkward overtures of friendship, shy and hopeful. He hadn’t cared that Dean was grumpy or rude, hadn’t cared that Dean was there to write a story at his expense. He had expected that.

Nothing. There’s nothing to say. Only that he misread Cas, the whole situation, and now he’s stuck writing a story he feels ill just thinking about. That he fucked the whole thing up, and Victor’s on his  case, and Jo’s got a killer story waiting in the wings, and he’s too selfish and prideful to give up fifteen years of hard work to establish his name for the sake of this story, and Cas used to look at him with warm, bright eyes and that’s gone now.

He bumps into Uriel coming in from outside. Uriel looks surprised and furtive, dodging around him to enter the house.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean shoots over his shoulder.

“A walk,” Uriel says defensively.

“Try answering your fucking phone,” Dean says, and slams his car door, not bothering to hear his reply.

He has a story to write about a man who is a complete mystery to him still. What he does know he can’t put into writing.

What he knows is that Cas is lonely, because Cas told him he was alone and Dean took advantage of that.

What he knows is Cas had hoped Dean would react better, differently, than anyone else—a profound bond, a different set of expectations—and Dean had reacted worst of all.

What he knows is that Cas knows what hate is, because he had stumbled away and across the room, shocked and afraid, like he knew what to expect right after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter name: Dem Feelz.   
> Okay yeah, everyone feels bad, Dean feels bad, Cas is self-destructing, angst abounds!  
> So, a general footnote: things start picking up after this. Jo is desperate to prove herself, Dean's put in a box because his unquestioned award-winning status might be (he fears) usurped by his rookie best friend, and Cas is pushed too far and makes some decisions for himself. These are the things that show true colors, people!  
> So, next chapter: Dean is further discomfited by Jo's meeting with a certain mayor, Sam has inputs, and Cas calls with bad news.  
> Next, next chapter: Dean and Jo have to decide what comes first, a trip to Bella Luchia is made, Cas like Dean's never seen him.   
> A huge thank you to everyone who is reading, revewing, and kudo-ing! Yay!


	12. Wool Over Your Eyes

No one ever actually uses the employee break room, because the coffee maker actually finds a way to char coffee there and the light always flickers and buzzes like a scene from a horror movie. So Dean moves right in and sulks while he eats. He thinks me might go back to his desk, but he’s pretty sure Jo is gone being great at her job, and he has absolutely nothing to do.

After fidgeting with his Blackberry for a few minutes, he finally gives in and calls his brother.

“Hey Dean, you caught me on my lunch break. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dean says feebly. “Just wanted to call.”

There’s a short silence on the other end. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, man. Just wanted to talk. You know. Brother stuff.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Okay. Well, I’m currently still working on the Juniper case—” Dean inexplicably feels a rush of warmth, just because his little brother knows him so well, and will blabber to fill the silence just because he knows. He knows that sometimes Dean wants to check in and listen to how successful he’s been, to take pride in Sam’s achievements. Sam shares these things with Dean.

“Hey,” Dean croaks suddenly. He clears his throat. “I—I wanted to tell you something. I don’t say this enough, but I love you, man. I don’t know why I have such a problem saying it. You’re the best  person I know. I’m so proud to be your brother.”

Oh, god, this is what Cas has done to him. Turning him into a blubbering mess into the burnt-smelling, decrepit break room.

“Dean,” Sam says. “I know you do. Are you sure you’re okay? I don’t have a problem with this, it’s just…out of nowhere.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was wrong, Sammy. Cas isn’t a conman. He wasn’t lying. Cas read my mind, and everything he said—I don’t want to be that person if I can help it. That person who tries to be big and brave and buries all his feelings. I want to start being honest.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “You can be honest. What kind of person are you talking about?”

“I,” Dean says. “I’m not a good brother to you half the time, okay? I’m jealous that you’re getting married, and I’m afraid you’re leaving me behind, and that you won’t have anything to do with me because you’ll have your own life, and you’ve—shit. It’s not fair for me to expect you not to grow up and have your own life.”

“Whoa, whoa, _Dean_ ,” Sam says. He sounds upset. “What are you talking about? You’re not a bad brother. Ever. You make _me_ feel like a bad brother.”

“That’s not—look, I called to get this all off my chest. We don’t need to, like, compare. I’m telling you this because I don’t want to be that person anymore, the one who resents you having your own perfect life apart from mine. This is me, calling you, telling you that I’ll be better.”

“No, Dean. We _do_ —Jesus Christ.” He hears the phone fumbling around, the sound of a door opening and closing, like Sam’s moving somewhere more private. “Dean. We do need to have this talk, because we’ve never had it before, and you’re dead wrong. _I_ feel the shit brother half the time. You gave your whole childhood away so I could have mine, you paid for me to get into college—I’m successful because I had you, and I couldn’t let you down. This isn’t me growing up and away from you, this is me trying to prove that everything you sacrificed was worth it. This has been me trying to make your proud.”

“Sammy—”

“ _Listen._ We’re not shit brothers, either of us. We just might need to communicate better, is all.”

Dean lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I—I don’t want us to not be close anymore, or do things together anymore. Which isn’t fair to you or Jess—it’s not like she’s your ball and chain or anything. I just—all those things we used to do, like poker nights or road trips—”

“We can still do those things,” Sam says. “We can plan a road trip for the summer, we could—”

“I didn’t say it to guilt trip you into doing that—”

“We don’t need to pretend we don’t need each other,” Sam says firmly. “You’ll never not be in my life, Dean. I thought you knew that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah. I do now, thanks. Look, sorry for the weepy lunch break. Just—the person that Cas revealed, I don’t want to be that person.”

“Cas didn’t show a universal truth, from the sound of it,” Sam says. “He just was showing what you think about yourself. If you want to change it, then you can. It’s literally all in your head.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He lets out a long breath. “Dude—you really don’t have anything to say about the fact that Cas just _read my mind_? You’re just completely accepting of it?”

“I had more important things to address,” Sam says. “But yeah—if I didn’t know any of that stuff about you, I doubt this stranger could make it up. How’s that gonna work out for your story?”

“So far, it’s not,” Dean sighs. “Which reminds me, I should probably get back to it. Thanks for, well, everything. I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Sounds good,” Sam says. “Yeah. Uh, love you. Talk to you soon.”

And normally—well, Dean would have laughed, or scoffed, or made a gagging sound into the telephone before hanging up. But now, his sweaty palm slips on the phone, and he feels a smile stretch across his face, and he says, “Yeah, you too,”—still slightly awkward, as Sam is, but willing to try. Willing to change.

**

Ten minutes later, he’s walking to his cubicle when he suddenly grinds to a stop, his mouth wide open.

Lindsey Abaddon is gracefully standing up from Jo’s cubicle, her vibrant hair loose and untamed around her shoulder. All around Dean, nerdy and slightly afraid journalists are peeking just a little over the walls of their cubicles, staring in awe.

“It was a pleasure,” Abaddon says, her voice carrying. “I’m glad to assist. If you need anything else, you know how to reach me.”

Jo’s blonde head, a good six inches shorter, appears over her wall as well. “I appreciate it,” she says, her voice bright and sweet. “Thank you so much, Mayor.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Abaddon says grandly.

Abaddon gives her a wide smile, and then turns to leave. Dean’s  still standing halfway down the hallway, so Abaddon gives him a polite smile as she brushes by him. He hates to be That Guy, but he turns to watch her go—stilettos that could kill a man, and glossy curled hair. She came to impress. She came to impress…Jo?

Jo is out in the hallway too now, pushing Dean’s wheelie chair back into his cubicle—he realizes that the Mayor must have been using _his_ chair to sit in while she was visiting Jo—and smiling to herself about the looks she’s getting from the other journalists on the floor, who are craning their necks still.

“What was that, Jo?” Dean asks slowly. Jo beams sunnily at him, beckons him into her cubicle—and her smile immediately drops.

“Something’s going on,” she says softly. “I contacted Abaddon’s people for a quote, right? I’d be cool with talking to her receptionist, for god’s sakes. And then the Mayor herself comes here to talk to me in person, when I’m still Miss Nobody.”

Dean takes the cue and drops his voice. “That’s good, right? More legitimacy for your story.”

“Maybe,” Jo says doubtfully. “This was like a strange campaign for her—she was talking loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear, talking ‘candidly’ about her issues with Lucian’s gang and her inability to shut them down. Why would she want to broadcast that so much?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Everyone has their Watergate, right? So she’s being forthright about hers. That’s ballsy.”

“Stop liking her just because you’re supposed to!” Jo snaps. “So she struts in here in cat heels and suddenly she’s your favorite person?”

“Whoa. If I’m not mistaken, _you_ voted for her too,” Dean says.

Jo shakes her head, doing a slow turn in her chair. “I’m just getting the feeling that something more is happening. It’s like she’s trying to direct my attention _here_ so I wouldn’t notice something happening _over there_.”

“Well, you should definitely trust your instincts,” Dean says. “It’s not like the Mayor to stop by the _Sun_ in her free time or anything. I guess I’m just confused as to what would be accomplished by giving you all the fodder for a smear campaign.”

“I don’t know,” Jo moans. “It was hard enough just to think on my feet and keep up with her. And in between all that she’s asking me to _please, get her a cup of water_ and _yes, do answer your phone. Pretend I’m not even here_. It was like a grudge match—who could smile the most while being as deliberately vague as possible.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I think I can still smell the sexual tension. So she just wanted to talk about Lucian?”

“Yeah,” Jo says. She’s rubbing her forehead, looking frustrated. “She was interested to know about what I had so far. I didn’t tell her much, obviously, but she’s very—dogged. Wanted to know if I had managed to find out who Lucian’s mole is.”

“I’m sure she’d love to know who it is,” Dean says.

“Yeah, but obviously I don’t know myself,” Jo says. “I told her I was trying to find out before Lucian’s gang self-implodes into violence. That, at least, is common knowledge—that Lucian is desperate to find out who the tipster is. It was weird. She sounded very sure that Lucian has some crazy schemes to find out who the mole is, and that none of them will work.”

“Well, it’s her job to sound like she’s on top of everything,” Dean says. “And she also is in a position of power. It’s possible she even knows more about Lucian’s gang than you do. Probably gets dossiers filled with info on gang activity on the East Side.”

“Hmm,” Jo says. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Do you think she’s being weird? Hiding something?”

                Dean shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Jo. I know it’s not what you want to hear. I think it’s strange, but I can’t think what else she could be up to. Besides, you know, being the Mayor.”

                Jo turns in another circle on her chair, and then stands up. “Well, this isn’t accomplishing anything. I made contact with a few people from Azazel’s old gang. Gonna go meet up with them—probably best not to mention I saw Abaddon today though.”

                “Good call,” Dean says. He walks back into his cubicle and waves goodbye when Jo leaves. He’s restless, though, and has no one to talk to—coworkers or sources—so soon enough he switches off his monitor and stands to leave.

                He notices on his wheelie chair a long, bright red hair there—curled in the seat like a snake.

**

                It had been another normal night in Casa Dean. He made himself up some fettuccine—and enough leftovers to last him another five days—he watched some Star Trek reruns, showered, read a little, went to bed.

                He wakes up, bleary and unfocused, at three AM. He’s not sure what woke him until he hears his phone vibrate again on the night stand. His thoughts immediately fly to Jo, and he fumbles it up to his ear.

                “’Lo?”

                “Dean.”

                “ _Cas_?!”

                “I’m calling to tell you that I won’t be meeting with you on Tuesday,” Cas says. He sounds wide awake and steady—which fucking good for him, okay—but Dean is still struggling pry his eyes open process what’s happening.

                And, just—fuck. He should have expected this. That whole “I hate you” curveball was bound to make things awkward, and he’s been waiting for Cas to come up with some lame excuse for ages—but not now, not when these meeting would actually _help_ Cas.

                “Why are you telling me _now_?” Dean snaps.

                “Dean.” There’s a faint rustling noise, followed by a long silence. Dean even checks to make sure the line wasn’t disconnected. “There are—there are people here. I think they’ve come to take me.”

                Dean sits up in bed. “Cas—are you saying there are intruders in your house?”

                “Yes.”

                He pushes off the covers and almost faceplants on the floor. “Call the fucking police,” he hisses. “Don’t fucking take the time to clear your previous engagements!” He thinks he sounds a little high-pitched and hysterical, and rapidly shuts up.

                “I did call them,” Cas says calmly. “They’re not going to be here in time. I am hiding in my closet until they find me.”

                “Cas,” Dean moans. “Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”

                “I bought myself a _track phone_ ,” Cas continues softly, conversationally. “Last week, when I still thought we were friends. It seemed like a good idea. I only had four names programmed into it, and—I just wanted someone to know, Dean. I’m sorry to put you in this position. But…I  just wanted to have someone to say goodbye to.”

                Dean’s stumbling around his bedroom, breathing hard and trying to find clothing. Fuck it—he’ll go in his boxers if he has to—“It’s okay, Cas,” he pants. “It’s fine. Do you know who they are? Do you—”

                “Sshh,” Cas says. There’s a long silence again, and Dean even freezes in his room, miles away, like his stillness might help. “I don’t know who they are. But I think Uriel must be involved. My alarm system didn’t go off, and I didn’t hear them come in. They must have the key, and the code—and there are three cars parked out front. Waiting. This was planned out.”

                “Fuckin’ Uriel,” Dean snarl-whispers. He’s trying to find his car keys now, and he’s desperately hurling jeans and jackets around the room, trying to hear their telling jangle. “Don’t worry, Cas, I’m gonna…”

                Gonna—what? He doesn’t have a _particular set of skills_. He’s a journalist, for crying out loud. He finally finds his keys, and thinks he might cry in relief, and—

                “Dean.” Cas’s voice is so near, it’s like he’s in the room with Dean, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder and stopping him. It brings Dean to a sudden halt.

                “It’s okay. I just wanted someone to call. Thank you.”

                Dean slumps down on his floor, a puppet with the strings cut. “ _Why_?” He says. “ _Who_? I don’t understand—” He feels helpless, and afraid, like when he used to wake in the middle of the night, back when Dad owed Bad Men money and they would come in the darkness, threatening, intimidating. Gone by morning, so the whole thing seemed an awful dream, the men just demons drawn up in his nightmares.

                Cas draws in a breath. “I hear them now. They’re coming up the stairs. A couple of them, I think.”

                Dean’s heart is thundering, his palm slipping on the phone. “ _Cas_ —”

                “It’s okay, Dean. Not much longer now. Let’s just sit here quietly. Please.” Dean shuts up, putting his hand over his mouth to kill the sounds of his panting. He listens, desperately, for sirens, for a cry of “Police! Everyone on the ground!” All he hears is the slow, steady breaths on the other end of the line.

                There are a few more seconds of silence, and then he hears the sound of a door being suddenly thrust open, and then he doesn’t know what he’s hearing—a thump, unintelligible shouting, maybe a cry of pain—and the call suddenly drops.

                “Cas!” He says into the phone. “ _Cas!”_ But all he gets in response is a dial tone.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cries into hands*  
> Anyways, sorry for super late update- Spring Break has been fun. I'm hoping to wrap this up soon though because I have another idea I'm super excited about. I am updating from a Remote Location so I will respond to lovely comments as soon as I'm able!  
> Thanks to all!
> 
> EDIT: I am a beast and did not put my normal previews!  
> Next chapter: Dean and Jo form their own version of Woodstein, a trip to Bella Luchia is in order, Victor is surprisingly badass, Cas needs help.  
> Next, next chapter: Dean learns something he shouldn't, Sam is a natural nursemaid, Ash helps cross the lines of journalistic integrity, and Jo's story takes a turn that makes Cas the hottest commodity in town.


	13. The Flimflam Gang

 

                Dean’s mom once told him that everyone reads a book of revelation for their lives. In that moment, they suddenly become aware of everything that really matters over the course of their years—an amalgamation of joy and laughter and tears and secrets and truths. She was saying this to comfort him after his hamster, Boy George, died unexpectedly in the night,  but still.

                Dean thinks he’s reading his book that morning in the police station, cranky and still wired and trembling from Cas’s call. All he can think about is Cas’s steady resignation—why _wouldn’t_ he have a group of intruders come into his home and abduct him, honestly. He was probably used to his life just being a colossal sack of shit. He hadn’t cried or begged, had just wanted to say goodbye.

                “Mister Winchester,” the officer says. Dean’s not listening. He thinks about Cas’s warm, awkward smiles, the slumped shoulders in his trench coat. He thinks about Cas sitting across from him in a smoky bar, in a dark car, just a shadowed face with tousled hair and sleepy, kind eyes.

                “Mister Winchester,” the officer says, sounding a little impatient. “Stay with me, please. We have no record of a Castiel living there—or anyone, for that matter. Whoever’s renting must be paying in cash, and this—GN Properties, or whatever, is not answering its phone.”

                “Okay, so he paid in cash,” Dean says. “What’s the problem, officer?”

                “The fact that you want us to conduct a missing persons search for a man named ‘Castiel,’” the officer replies impatiently. “No lease, no records, no last name. Where are we even supposed to start?”

                “I don’t know,” Dean says. “Does his last name matter right now? He’s—he’s about six feet, okay? Dark brown hair, blue eyes, mid thirties. Maybe wearing a trench coat.”

                He gestures for the officer to write that down, but the man is instead just staring at him. “Maybe wearing a trench coat,” he repeats slowly, ire dripping from each word.

                “Yes!” Dean says, loud enough for a few heads to turn in his direction. “What is the big holdup, huh? You got a 911 call from him, right? At three in the morning? And then you have _my_ 911 call, and you can take my cell phone, and see that he called me—see? Right there. 3:23. Now can you please get a fucking move on already? Fucking Christ—”

                “Mister Winchester, you are in the middle of a police station. If you want me to put you somewhere to cool you down, I assure you we have multiple options—”

                “Dean,” a second voice says firmly. He turns to see the Commissioner standing behind him—saying his name, but looking severely at the officer Dean’s been talking to. “Sorry for the holdup. Let’s have a chat.”

                “It’s all good,” Dean says, getting up and snatching his coat off his chair. “Rather not deal with a bunch of amateurs, honestly.” Under the Commissioner’s gaze, he tries to settle himself down, running a hand over his tufted-up hair. “Hi, Commissioner Tran. Linda. Ma’am. Nice to see you.”

                She shakes her head. “Brody, make up two coffees from the break room and bring them to my office,” she says to the policeman behind Dean. “Come on, Dean. I want to know what all this fuss is about.”

                Dean follows Linda’s petite figure down a long hallway, trying to ignore the curious faces walking by or poking out of offices. It’s not just that he’s been making a commotion since he arrived, panicked and out of breath, at four in the morning. He’s already well-known around the precinct, having worked closely—with the Commissioner’s permission—with the police task force on a variety of his award-winning articles over his career. Some he even knew by name; had gone out with on raids or accompanied him when he visited high-profile prisoners. His devil-may-care reputation has taken a bit of a dunking since he started bellowing around the reception room this morning, demanding for someone to arrest Uriel Mallach, to sweep Castiel’s house, to locate Cas and bring him home.

                Linda slides behind her desk, giving Dean a quick smile. “You holding up okay?”

                “Yeah, fine,” Dean says, even as he drags a hand down his face. “So, has anyone gotten anything, yet? Your officer was completely stonewalling me.”

                “Well, to be fair, you didn’t exactly give us a lot to go on,” Linda says. She holds up her hand to stop any angry retorts, and slides a piece of paper across the table to Dean. “We looked up Uriel Mallach. Squeaky clean record, works as a bodyguard for Garrison United. I called in a favor who called in a favor, and the owner of GU says that Uriel was indeed working as a bodyguard at Montclair Avenue, just like you say.”

                Dean looks down at a picture of Uriel’s unsmiling face. He got one parking ticket fifteen years ago. That’s it.

                “You’re obviously a trustworthy source, Dean. If you’re saying a man named Castiel lives there, that he called you as he was being kidnapped, then I believe you. Right now, Uriel is MIA but we can’t take that to  mean it’s because he’s guilty. It would have to take a lot for a man of his squeaky standing to put himself on the bad side of the law.”

                “Trust me, I want you guys to find him and roast his ass,” Dean says. “But the more urgent thing is finding Cas. This has to be big—three cars of men don’t show up in the middle of the night for anything less. Can’t we—I don’t know—”

                He peters off, Linda still looking at him sympathetically. “All we do have to go on are two 911 calls and your word, Dean. I’m not saying it isn’t valuable. But trying to find ‘three cars of men from the middle of the night’ is not going to pan out favorably.”

                Dean puts his head in his hands, feeling a headache forming. “So, what are you saying?”

                “I’m saying that I’m going to try to call in another favor for you and subpoena Mallach’s bank records. I know it hasn’t been 48 hours yet, but I’m going to send the forensics team over to Montclair Avenue, see what they can find. You are welcome to go along.”

                Back to Montclair Avenue, where Cas hid in a closet and spoke wistfully of having someone to say goodbye to, hoping he was doing it right. Dean feels his stomach contract.

                “Yeah, I’ll go,” he says. Linda smiles at him.

                “Good call. I’ll tell you anything I hear, okay?”

                “I appreciate it, Linda. Really.” He’s lucky that he has these kinds of prestigious connections to the police department, that Chicago’s commissioner is willing to personally become invested in a undocumented mind reader named Castiel. It still doesn’t help the fact that Cas was taken five hours ago, and Dean’s still got squat as to how to find him.

                Just to calm himself down, he drives Baby by himself back to Castiel’s house, not wanting to deal with the chatter of the forensics team, their complete uncaringness that Cas was missing, gone, maybe forever. When he gets there, the front door of Cas’s house is open, and he sees the forensics team walking in and snapping on gloves.

                He steps in and gives a tight smile to the first person who looks up. “Hey. I’m Dean. Commissioner Tran said I could come over.” He fumbles to get his press badge, but the woman waves it away, uninterested. Someone is looking closely at the keypad on Cas’s alarm system, but he bypasses that, going straight up the stairs.

                “Dean!” He turns around, halfway up the flight, and sees Kevin Tran running up the stairs after him. “How are you? You know this guy?”

                Poor Kevin had the bad luck of being super smart but related to the commissioner—Linda being his mom—so at first everything he achieved was initially dismissed as nepotism. After four years with the forensics unit, not many people were saying that anymore. Dean had met Kevin on a variety of cases, seeing as blood spatter, journalism, and forensics specialists were all things you could find at a crime scene.

                He manages a wan smile. “Yeah—friend of mine. Your people find anything yet?”

                Kevin shakes his head, still a little out of breath. “Looks like the key was in the lock, and the alarm system was dismantled—no finger prints so far. Actually, a strange lack of finger prints anywhere.”

                “Cas likes his gloves,” Dean says. “I was going up to the bedroom—that’s where he was taken. You coming with?”

                “Yeah,” Kevin says quickly, and they climb the stairs and quickly locate the single bedroom.

                “Looks like Cas also likes the simple touch,” Kevin says, looking around the bedroom. It’s so sparse it almost looks uninhabited—just a bed with a white bedspread, a nightstand and a lamp. Across the room, the closet door is wide open and gaping, and Dean has to quickly look away.

                “Yeah, he’s not much for decorating,” he says. Walking closer to the nightstand, he sees now that there are two small objects there. One is postcard from Thailand—a cheesy tourist one, with a picture of an elephant on its hind legs, a speech bubble giving him words: “Just saying ‘Thai!’”

                He shakes his head and flips it over. A slanted scribble says, “Be back in the States in two months. Hope to see you.—G.”

                Dean continues to look in confusion. The message isn’t exactly the paragon of love and affection, but there is someone out there, thinking of Cas and sending him hokey postcards. Someone that Cas could call at three in the morning—someone who would probably care that Cas had been carried off and away.

                He puts the postcard down and turns to the other object. It’s just a small, stippled bottle cap. At first, he thinks it was left by accident—Cas, drinking before bed—until he sees the words there. _Bond Brewing_.

                Fucking Cas. He feels a heat rise high in his cheeks, and quickly pockets the cap before turning around and looking at Kevin, who is crouched at the entry of the closet.

                “Anything?”

                Kevin shakes his head. “Not really. Here, at least, he have some forced entry—see the dent in the wall? That’s from throwing the door open so hard. There are some paint chips on the floor here from the impact. But no—no fingerprints, footprints, or fibers, from what I can tell.”

                Dean comes forward and looks around, past Kevin. The closet isn’t really that big,  but there aren’t  many clothes hanging in it, either. He glances around in the corners. “No phone?”

                “Nothing,” Kevin says. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean’s phone rings. He gratefully turns away.

                “It’s your _mom_ ,” he says, and can’t resist waggling his eyebrows at Kevin as he answers. “Hi, Linda.”

                “Got ahold of Mr. Mallach’s banking transactions, and there’s a weird deposit in there from three days ago. Fifty thousand dollars, but we haven’t traced from who yet. Sounds like he might have gotten paid off to look the other way.”

                “And is probably long gone with that kind of money, too,” Dean says. “Shit.”

                “We’ll see,” Linda says. “He wasn’t as smart about turning off his phone until a few hours ago. He was still in Chicago—we could still track him down.”

                There’s a thought there, shouting at Dean, and he tries to make sense of it. “His phone,” Dean repeats. “His phone. His phone _number_.”

                “Um…yes,” Linda says. “Dean?”

                “One second. I might have something.” He hangs up and then redials.

                Castiel had said he only had four names in his phone—Dean’s being one. Uriel would make sense too, but Uriel wasn’t his only employee.

                “Hello!”

                “Becky, it’s Dean. I mean, it’s Michael. Oh, fuck it—look, Castiel’s been kidnapped. I’m working with the police to find him at this very moment. I need your help.”

                “That’s terrible!” Becky gasps. “I never met him, of course, but he would always send these nice thank-you cards with his money—which is so old fashioned, but really sweet! Oh, no. What can I do to help?”

                “I need to know any people who tried to pass background checks in the past few weeks,” Dean says. “Specifically if they failed.”

                “Sure,” Becky says, and there’s a determined flurry of typing from the other end of the line.

                “I’ve only had four people in the past three weeks inquire about getting an appointment with Cas,” Becky says. “You know, he doesn’t get  much business, what with being super-secretive and confidentiality contracts and whatnot. Anyways, I turned one guy away, because he had a bit of a record.”

                “A record for what?”

                “Probably for breaking a record—his rap sheet was longer than my arm. Petty stuff, mostly, but he didn’t look like the greatest of characters. Want his name?”

                “Please.”

                “It’s Lewell Azazel. Ring any bells?”

                “Not for me,  not yet. Becky—thank you.”

                “Get going. Tell me if you need anything else.”

                Dean quickly ends the call and redials again.

                “Jo,” he says. “I need your help.”

**

                An hour later, he, Jo, and Linda Tran are back in her office.

                “Lewell Azazel,” Jo says, looking down at one of his mug shots. “He’s a small-time drug runner in Lucian’s operation. Not too bright, considering the number of times the police have arrested him—but he’s Lucian’s cousin, so he still has a pretty cushy spot in the hierarchy.”

                “Yes, we’ve marked him as one of Lucian’s associates,” Linda says. “What I want to know is, why do you think he was contacting your friend, Dean?”

                Dean blows out a breath. “Cas markets himself as a healer with the power to read minds,” he admits. “All I have to say is even if you don’t believe in that, he’s very convincing. I took Jo to see him a few weeks back, and I think she was being tailed at the time by Lucian’s men—she’s writing up a story on them now.”

                Jo pales. “The black car?” She says. “You think I led them straight back to Cas?”

                “I think _we_ did,” Dean says, and turns back to the commissioner. “We all know that Lucian has been trying to nab his mole. They’re on high alert right now. A new face shows up asking questions, so they get suspicious and follow her around. They get curious as to why she goes to a certain place—Cas’s house.”

                “So they do research and find out Cas markets himself as a mind reader,” Linda says. “Where does Lewell Azazel come into play?”

                “They probably were trying to go low key originally. You can get a meeting with Cas if you pass a background check—which I doubt they knew, or else they wouldn’t be throwing the guys with rap sheets into the wind. With no way to contact him legally, they do what they’re used to. Pay off Cas’s bodyguard, abduct Cas in the night.”

                “And you think they want Cas—why?”

                “Because Jo was talking to him, and they want to know what Jo knows,” Dean says. “Or because he says he’s a mind reader, and they might be desperate enough to see if he can find out their mole.”

                “And if he doesn’t?” Linda asks.

                There’s a long beat of silence. “I don’t think it will matter whether Cas does or doesn’t,” Dean says finally.

                Linda folds her hands in front of her. She looks serious. “Then we need to find him.”

**

                Turns out that is easier said than done.

                Jo and Dean languish alone in Linda’s office, listening to the steady stream of bad news. Uriel still hasn’t been located. The officers who track Lucian’s gang activity haven’t noticed anything suspicious, have no clue as to where they would take a hostage. Lewell Azazel is nowhere to be found.

                A mind reader named Castiel does not exist in the system, so Dean suspects many of the officers around him couldn’t care less. Are doing their work with the kind of disinterested detachment that comes with Linda Tran ordering them to a case that they think is a waste.

                Dean slumps in Linda’s office, nauseous and tired, thinking of Cas, beaten and bloody; Cas, unconscious, dumped into Lake Huron; Cas, tentatively smiling at Dean, his new and only friend. _Cas_.

                “The commissioner’s favors are running out,” he says dully to Jo. “And we have no clue where Cas is. The police can’t just go barging into every one of Lucian’s holdouts and hideaways, not when all they have to go on is my word that a guy they can’t even prove exists was kidnapped. God, this is a mess.”

                Jo is curled in her wide seat like a cat, her arms and head resting on Linda’s desk. “I feel so guilty,” she whispers. “I led those thugs straight to him.”

                “Jo—”

                “It’s not just that. I treated him like everyone else does. That man is so _fucking_ desperate for anyone to just be kind to him. And then I ran out of there and wouldn’t even look at him.”

                “Well, I told him I hated him,” Dean says. Jo lifts her head to scrutinize him. “Not in so  many words, but I thought it. I didn’t tell you, Jo, and you deserved to know—I had Cas read my mind. As usual, you were right, and I was wrong, and I fucked everything up.”

                Jo shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

                “It’s not. I’m sorry, Jo, again, blanket apology for everything. I belittled you for telling the truth about Cas, for thinking there was a car tailing us—fuck.”

                There’s another long silence. Linda’s phone rings, but she isn’t in the room to answer it, so they wait until it stops.

                “It’s weird,” Jo says. “I mean, you were there too when Cas read my mind. Every awful thing he knew about me, you ended up knowing too. But it’s not like I avoid _you_.”

                Dean thinks back to Cas talking at the bar, a beer cradled in his hands, and his smile bittersweet. “I think it’s a give and take thing. Sharing intimate details—we share those with intimate people. We might be embarrassed, but there’s a trust there.” He remembers Cas, his hand clamped tight and warm on Dean’s shoulder, the bright flash of hate that bubbled through his veins.  “Cas opens your mind up and offers nothing in return. It makes you vulnerable. It makes you lash out.”

                He reaches into his pocket, toying with the bottle cap. “If we can react so violently to that kind of invasion, Lucian’s men—fuck.”

                Jo’s chin bumps down onto the desk again. “Fuck.”

                The clock ticks on the wall while they think in silence again. A slow, sluggish, meandering thought makes its way into Dean’s brain. “It won’t work. Cas’s mind reading.”

                “Why not?”

                Dean slowly sits up. “Because—because the mole isn’t one of Lucian’s men. Fuckin’ shit, we’re dumb.”

                “What are you talking about?”

                “Lucian’s men are going to take Cas to a remote location!” Dean says, throwing his hands up. “They aren’t gonna take Cas to a crowded strip club and try him out on the waitresses!”

                “Okay—”

                “Jo, _the mole_ is not going to be with Cas. _The mole_ is gonna be at Bella Luchia. _The mole_ might know where Cas is!” Dean’s up now, and pacing. “We have to go there and find her. She’s had good info so far, and if _she_ can tell us where—”

                “ _Dean_.” Jo says firmly. He looks up. “Slow down. I don’t know if that will work.”

                He’s gaping at her. “What? Why?”

                Jo is acting—strange. She slowly tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, not looking at him. “I’m the only one who knows what she looks like,” she says. “And I can’t go to Bella Luchia anymore.”

                “Come on, Jo—”

                “No, don’t _come on, Jo_! Do you not remember that they kicked me out and told me never to come back? And I wasn’t planning on it—like I said before, I’d have to have a death wish to go there again.”

                Dean feels like the room just got airless, smaller. Out of all the roadblocks he had seen in getting Cas back, he wasn’t counting on Jo to be one of them. “Listen, I know. You’re right. We have to take that into consideration. But _Cas_. This might be our only chance to find him.”

                “And if we don’t?” Jo snaps. “If I go in there and get my brains blown out for the trouble? If she doesn’t even know where Cas is being kept, and it was a wasted trip? What then?”

                “Dammit, Jo—I get it, okay? You’re afraid. _Fine_. But this is bigger than burning your big source for your story, or it being a wasted trip. This is about the next body being found in a warehouse being _Cas’s_. If you’re scared—fine. I’m not going to force you. You have good reason to be. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to be upset by it.”

Jo turns away, massaging her forehead. “You know, when I thought I was getting my badass undercover story, I thought I’d be risking my life on my own terms,” she says. She turns back to look at Dean. “I’m really scared. I have reason to be. I’ll go to Bella Luchia, I’ll do it Cas—there have to be rules though, Dean. First sign of danger, we leave. There’s no point in more bodies, in being self-sacrificing. We have to be smart about this.”

                Dean’s trembling with energy. “Jo. You are truly the bravest person I know.” He pulls her into a hug, pushing his face into her hair. “Thank you. Thank you.”

                “I’m not brave,” she says, her voice muffled against his shirt. “I’m scared shitless.”

                “Same thing, Jo,” Dean says. “It’s about time you learned.”

**

                Linda’s not happy. A police presence would out Jo and Dean faster than anything, so they are going in by themselves.

                After that, everything snowballs a little. Jo vigorously defends going, speaking hotly while Dean can only nod in agreement, his thoughts only on how long it’s been since Cas was taken, how long they would keep him alive for the task at hand.

                Victor shows up, having heard his two prize reporters have been at the police station all day. There isn’t time to haggle about whether Cas is a conman or not, the strange circumstances of his disappearance. Victor suspends his disbelief and elects to come with them.

                “It’s called a hands-on approach to being your boss,” he says to Jo and Dean’s shocked faces. “You two idiots are better with me going along.”

                Jo reminds them there’s a dress code at Bella Luchia. Dean couldn’t care less, now feeling the agonizing slide of every minute, every second, but Victor says they won’t even get in the door with what they’re wearing now. Linda commissions them a police car with its screaming sirens—in a whirlwind of twenty minutes, they have dashed into their home and grabbed dresses and heels and suits and ties. They don’t even have time to change there—they cram into the backseat together, Jo wriggling into panty hose while Dean and Victor struggle shoulder-to-shoulder into their suit jackets. They do up each others’ ties while the police car swerves around corners.

                They get dropped off out of sight of the entrance. Jo’s smoothing down her hair with slightly trembling hands, trying to pull her bangs to cover her face. Victor is buttoning up his cuffs dispassionately.

                “Tell me what we’re looking for,” Victor says as they walk down the sidewalk, three abreast. People move to the side to make way for them.

                “She’s a waitress,” Jo says breathlessly. “Shorter than me, slim, long curly dark hair. If you see anyone who matches that description, point her out to me.”

                It’s the middle of the day, but there’s a small queue to get into the club. Jo and Dean are now taking their cues from Victor—who, although aware of their time restraint, is affecting a cool casual vibe, not bothered by their wait. Dean tries to relax his jaw, smiles at the doorman.

                He can almost feel Jo radiating fear behind him. “How’s it going, man?” He says, angling his body a bit so Jo can slide by him. The doorman eyes her and moves on to Victor.

                “Fine,” the doorman says in a bored voice. “Enjoy yourself.”

                Dean tries not to let his relief show. He walks through the door into the dimly lit bar area, Jo and Victor hanging back to wait for him. Even with the afternoon hours, it’s fairly packed—the tables lined with men drinking and talking, watching the dancers with enjoyment.

                Dean doesn’t even glance at them. His eyes are flitting from table to table, trying to discern the waitresses that he sees taking orders, leaning over men. So far, it’s a bunch of blondes.

                His stomach sinks further. What if the mole isn’t even working now? What will they do then?

                “We split up, but we keep eyes on each other,” Victor says. “If we see a waitress that fits the bill, we need Jo to verify. Jo, if you see the girl, follow her until Dean and I can meet up with you.”

                He then strolls off to the right, looking around like he’s trying to find a table.

                Dean takes Jo’s elbow. “Just don’t look nervous, or they’ll think you have reason to be. I’ll keep an eye out for you, okay?”

                Jo nods without looking at him, and walks down the stairs and towards the tables nearest to the dancers.

                Dean circles the perimeter. Men are everywhere, smoking and joking and appreciatively eyeing the nearest women. How many are Lucian’s men? Are they keeping a watch right now? Celebrating, because they’ve been cleared of suspicion, because Cas laid a hand on them and declared them innocent of betrayal? They are not innocent of many things besides. He sees their hands wrapped around beers, womens’ waists, and all he sees are brutish hands. Thug hands. Fingers that can squeeze triggers and strangle necks. Not hands like Cas’s, hands that can be gentle and timid and elegant.

                A few things seem to happen at once. He sees a large man, wearing a shirt with a Bella Luchia logo on it, slowly rise from his seat. He’s squinting across the room with a look like recognition, and when Dean follows his gaze he feels a bolt of ice in his gut—the man is looking at Jo.

                Jo is not looking at the man, has not noticed his interest. She is swiftly winding between tables, walking towards a waitress she is slim and short with long, curly brown hair—Dean is just as quickly elated. The mole is here, but Jo is in trouble. _The mole is here_.

                He has to do something—has to hustle Jo and this woman away from anyone who would be suspicious or potentially violent. As he starts across the room, he notices, to his horror, that the man is standing up and moving towards Jo, still with a confused squint on his face. Dean dodges between two tables, trying to head him off.

                The man walks faster, skirting a rowdy group of card-playing men, turns a corner—and then crashes into a chair. Victor stands up from it, frowning down at the beer that just got spilled all over the front of his pants.

                “Trust me, young man,” he says, his voice carrying and diverting attention. “What I wanted in my lap today was definitely not my drink of choice.”

                The large man is lumbering to his feet, shaking his head in apology, still distractedly trying to scan the crowd. Dean catches up with Jo just as he hears Victor speak again, loud and condescending—“I would like to speak to your manager. You do know what a manager is, don’t you?”

                Dean and Jo turn the corner into a hallway for employees—just in time to see the waitress disappearing around the corner, her hair flying out behind her.

                “Jo—” he says, pointing helplessly. They both go streaking after her, Jo stumbling slightly in her heels, skidding as they too turn the corner.

                “Hey!” Dean calls after her. The long, dark hallway is deserted but for the three of them. “Hey, come back!”

                The woman doesn’t even bother to look around or slow down.

                Jo stops, wobbling on her heels. “You come back here now, or I’ll tell the whole club you’re the mole!” She bellows.

                “What the _fuck_ ,” says the waitress. She slides to a halt, turning around to regard them as she pants for breath. “Seriously?”

                Jo nods, looking half-terrified but also pleased with herself. “Yeah, seriously. We need to talk.”

                With the length of the hall separating them, the waitress regards them. Finally, she seems to make up her mind. She saunters towards them, her head cocked to the head a little mockingly.

                “You do realize _you_ wouldn’t get off scot-free if you outed me—right, Blondie? You’d be dragged down with me.”

                “Don’t call my bluff unless you’re sure,” Jo says. She glances around and behind her. “Besides that, I don’t wish that fate on anyone. All I need is for you to answer a few questions.”

                The woman’s face contorts, her mouth pulling to the side. “You don’t even realize how deep you already are, do you? My boss would have no issue knocking you off if you get too close. My distance is protecting you, dumbass.”

                “Thanks,” Jo said dryly. “Do you know where Lucian is keeping the man that his men kidnapped last night?”

                The woman’s face gives nothing away. “If you were so afraid for your little friend Clarence, maybe you should have been more careful about where you led Lucian’s men.”

                “Clarence?” Dean says. “His name is Cas, and his time is running out. Do you know or not?”

                The woman gives him a long, considering look. “I might know. But I’m not sure it’s worth incriminating myself by letting you two lugs have that information. Blondie here definitely has no smarts, gadding around here after repeated warnings not to come back. And I don’t know _you_.”

                Jo takes in a sudden breath. “You tell us where he is, and I won’t come back again. You won’t have to worry about me blowing your cover. Please. He’s a good man. We all know what’s gonna happen to him when he’s run out of usefulness.”

                Dean shifts uncomfortably next to Jo. Jo’s giving him a lot of concessions here—coming to Bella Luchia in the first place, now giving up a pivotal part of her story. He can only hope that a good thing can come out of this—that Cas will be alive and okay. Soon. Now.

                “That’s touching,” the waitress says. “But I anonymously tip off the police about dead bodies. I don’t tell journalists about the barely alive ones.”

                Dean hears his mouth make a sound, and his hand is shooting out to grab her arm. She dances back out of reach, and runs straight into Victor, materializing behind her.

                “We don’t have much time,” Victor says, looking over her head at Dean and Jo. He then looks down at the waitress, who has turned flush against him, smirking daringly up at his face. “Listen up. That’s the very reason your cover won’t be blown—telling journalists about barely alive bodies is not your MO. Lucian’s people won’t suspect the mole—you. Now, can you tell us or not?”

                Dean is shifting anxiously; Jo holds her breath. He wants to reach out and shake the answer out of the waitress, wishes he could touch her, like Cas can, and just _know_.

                “Please,” he says softly.

                The waitress turns around. “I see now,” she says. “The hardnose, the intrepid journalist, and the pining boyfriend. Quite the winning team.” She tilts her chin at Dean. “He’s at Lucian’s warehouse on 11th Avenue and Larue. That is really all I know.”

                Victor looks at her a moment longer, and lets go of her. “There a back way out of here?”

                “Last door on your left,” she says, pointing out the way, but her eyes swivel to Dean. “I would hurry if I were you. I don’t think Lucian is gonna be happy that he didn’t find me.”

                She turns back towards the club, adopting a sultry sway as she goes. “Don’t come back again!” She calls over her shoulder, and rounds the corner.

                Dean, Victor and Jo look at each other for a moment, and then move quickly to the exit. They find themselves in a dingy alley, and after passing a row of dumpsters, they find themselves out on the street. Victor says something lowly to Jo, who is passing a hand over her forehead.

                Dean dials Linda. She answers on the first ring.

                “Dean, please tell me you’re okay,” she says.

                “I am,” Dean says. “We are. Linda, please—I need one last favor.”

**

                Victor and Jo are picked up in a taxi—Dean’s editor promises to see Jo home safely, make sure that she’s truly alright.

                Dean doesn’t spare a glance for them as he leaps into the back of a police cruiser.

                “Is anyone there yet? Is Cas okay?”

                “I don’t know,” the officer says tersely. “We’ll find out when we get there.”

                Dean doesn’t take it personally. As they speak, there is an all-out raid occurring at Lucian’s warehouse. It’s not just about Cas, although that is the official reason the police are swarming Lucian’s private property. It’s also about catching a large swath of Lucian and his higher-ups, all men wanted for various crimes, in one high-drama surprise. It’s about another potential big drug bust. There will be a swarm of policemen, squad cars, maybe some helicopters. It might turn violent.

                Dean doesn’t care about the big picture. Not a bit.

                Outside of the warehouse, it’s pandemonium. Police men and women are running back and forth, drug-sniffing dogs are pulling at their leads, and the crackle of walkie talkies fills the air with noise. Dean has to sit in the back, nose pressed to the window.

                “Is it over?”

                “They’re sweeping the warehouse now,” the officer says, listening to the squawk of his radio.

                A minute passes. Another minute. Dean drums his fingers on his knee. He feels like he might throw up, he might pass out. He just needs to see Cas.

                What will he do? He’s envisioning a thousand reunions, a thousand ways to push through the crowd and hold Cas close, _you’re okay, you’re alive, I don’t hate you, I don’t_.

                “The warehouse is all clear,” says the radio. There’s a long pause, leaving Dean suspended on a thin wire, heart tripping in his chest. “Unarmed man found locked in a room on the second floor. May require medical assistance.”

                Dean is already scrabbling for the handle. “Can I? I can. Please? Open the do—”

                The lock springs back and Dean throws a thank you over his shoulder, already sprinting towards the entrance. A few people call out, but no one tries to stop him as he careens around uniformed policemen, handcuffed gang members.

                Inside, the warehouse is musty and damp, with pallets of boxes stacked to the roof. He finds a stairwell and starts climbing, wheezing a little as he takes three steps at a time.

                Finally—a door open down the hall, some weak light shining through. He sees a paramedic running into the room, and follows.

                There at the doorway, he sees Cas. He’s so sudden, so solid, that Dean has to stop and lean against the doorway, his head light with relief.

                Cas is sitting propped up against the wall, looking dazed and unfocused. His lip is split, his cheek hollowed by a bruise, a little bit of blood on his trench coat. He looks beautiful to Dean.

                He also looks drugged.

                “Contusion on the back of the head,” Cas says, his head lolling to the side. “Slight dilation of the eyes.”

                Dean notices, then, what he wasn’t before, with his eyes only for Cas. Around Cas are five paramedics, ruthlessly efficient, their hands feeling at the bump in his hair, shining a flashlight in his eyes, feeling for his pulse in his wrist. Their hands touching skin, touching his bare hands.

                “Hey,” Dean says loudly from the doorway. “You all need to stop touching him.”

                “Heart rate—normal,” Cas says. He’s looking in Dean’s direction, but not at Dean. His eyes are unfocused and bright. “Ninety BPM.”

                “Hey—stop,” Dean says. “Leave him alone for a minute.” They all ignore him, so he steps forward, wanting to wade between them and pluck Cas from their grasp.

                “He’s not tracking,” Cas says. “Hospital—maybe he has gone into shock—someone get that guy out of here—”

                Dean reaches out to Cas, slumped and boneless and oversensitized on the ground, and the door is slammed abruptly in his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, cliffhangers. I've recently gotten into the habit because I'm a big ole meanie.   
> I am sorry for the time between updates! I had a twenty page paper due THIS week and now I have a forty page paper due next week. I need school to stop so I can focus on Dean and Cas's sweet, sweet love. Luckily--ahoy! Super long update!  
> A huge thank you to everyone still reading! I'm so grateful for comments and kudos and the like. 
> 
> Next chapter: Cas never expected visitors, Dean is a candy striper, Jo makes a startling leap, and Ash gives Dean something that could harm his relationship with Cas.   
> Next, next chapter: Dean invites Cas over to his apartment, Cas reveals some surprising information, Dean makes a rookie mistake.


	14. The Great Bamboozler

“You have a knack for getting yourself in dramatic situations, even when they have nothing to do with you,” Bobby observes. “Pretty sure that’s got nothing to do with me.”

                “You took in two boys whose mom died in a house fire, and whose dad ran away to avoid loan sharks,” Dean says. “I think it has everything to do with you.”

                Bobby doesn’t say anything for a while, so Dean assumes he’s chuckling into his beard.

                “Well, I’m glad the fool psychic will be okay. Keep me updated, Dean. It was nice to get the call from you.”

                He feels a warm rush in his chest to accompany Bobby’s words—a bridge, of sorts, letting them get over themselves and their knack for not communicating.

                “I’ll call again soon—when I have time to talk. I’d love to hear more about Jody.”

                “We’ll see…I don’t want to give all my secrets away,” says Bobby, international man of mystery. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

                “I will.”

                “And…tell Castiel hello, too. Sounds like he might be sticking around,” Bobby says. Before Dean can confirm or deny, Bobby says a quick goodbye and hangs up. Real cute, Bobby. Really mature.

                Dean tucks his cell phone back into his pocket and walks up to the nurses’ station again, pasting on his professional, winning smile. “Hello again.”

                The woman gives him a brief look from her computer. “Hi,” she says unenthusiastically.

                “It’s been another thirty minutes. Do you think I could—”

                “Visit a man we currently only know as ‘John Doe,’ when you can neither identify him nor claim to be family? Still no.”

                Dean’s professional, winning smile slumps away. “Can you at least tell me he’s okay?”

                The nurse opens her mouth—probably to say something really scathing, because Dean has been periodically harassing her for the last two and a half hours—when a man comes into the nursing station behind her and interrupts.

                “Are you Dean?” He says abruptly in a British accent.

                “Uh—yeah,” Dean says.

                “Wonderful,” the man replies. He turns to the nurse at the desk. “Maura, I’m about to do something very naughty. You won’t tell on me, will you, love?”

                Maura looks a lot friendlier than she has for the last two hours, and she smiles at the male nurse and turns away. “I’ve been doing paperwork for hours,” she says. “I never looked up once.”

                “Excellent,” the man says. He turns to Dean and cants his head in the direction of a door to his right. “Meet you over there?”

                “Sure,” Dean says. “Uh—” The nurse walks away.

                Tentatively, Dean opens the door the man indicated, finding it unlocked. On the other side is a long, sterile hallway with doorways on either side. The nurse is waiting for Dean, smiling.

                “Balth,” he says, reaching to shake Dean’s hand. “I’m Castiel’s nurse. Yes—Castiel,” he says, before Dean can interrupt. “He woke up about a half hour ago and was able to tell us his name. Names. Quite the character. He was speaking at length for a while about being worried about a _Dean_ —when I heard a man was harassing the front desk about our John Doe, I had to see if it was you.”

                “Thank you,” Dean says. “I don’t want to be irritating; I’ve just been really worried about him. He’s okay?”

                “He’s okay,” Balth agrees. “Technically, he shouldn’t be having any visitors now. But he’s been just as worried for you as you have been worried for him, and I can’t say I can resist a love story, either.”

                Dean clears his throat, feeling a flush work its way up his neck.

                “Oh,” Balth says. “Awkward.”

                “It’s not—”

                “I was assuming…”

                “—Yet,” Dean babbles, feeling his ears growing hot, too. “Um, can I see him?”

                Balth nods and beckons down the hallway, stopping in front of a door at the left. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with his meds,” he says. “Let you say your hellos in private.”

                Dean chooses to ignore the wink Balth sends his way, instead leaning around the door frame and looking at the room’s single occupant. Cas’s tousled head is tilted to the side, regarding a television show about talking bears with studious concern. From here, Dean can see the dark blemish of the bruise on his cheekbone, and his hands clasped loosely on his chest, wearing the transparent plastic gloves that always seem to proliferate hospitals.

                Dean wets his lips. “Cas,” he calls. “Hey.”

                Cas’s head whips around, and his look of stunned surprise makes Dean laugh.

                “ _Dean_ ,” he says. “I haven’t—I’m not—I wasn’t expecting to have any visitors here,” he finishes softly. Dean takes a step into the room, and a disbelieving smile stretches across Cas’s mouth. “You came to see me.”

                “Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, stopping at the  bedside. He puts his hands on the rail. “Dude—you got fucking kidnapped. By a drug cartel. I’ve been—Jesus, I’m glad you’re okay.”

                This close, he can see Cas’s pupils are the size of train tunnels, not to mention the fact he was unironically watching Berenstein Bears when Dean walked in. “Are you—feeling any pain?” He asks awkwardly.

                Cas shakes his head. “Not really. I think it’s more of a precaution.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “They didn’t know what to do with me. It’s not every day you get a patient gone catatonic from exposure to others’ minds. They induced sleep and gave me pain medication.” He gives a loose shrug, his grin growing wide and gummy. Dean’s heart gives a lurch. Cas loopy on medication is _not_ cute, dammit. Not at all.

                Cas holds up his plastic-gloved hand. “It had a lot to do with the fact my gloves were gone,” Mister Conversation continues. “Even when I woke up, I was disoriented. The sheets aren’t mine, the pillows aren’t mine—I was picking up the thoughts and emotions from previous patients. The nursing staff thought I was just extremely concerned about germs, so they gave me new bedding and these gloves. I’m talking a lot, aren’t I? I think I am.”

                “It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says. He pulls up one of the chairs against the wall to the side of Cas’s bed. “I want to talk about anything you want to talk about.”

                Cas beams at him—but also seems to run out of fodder. They smile helplessly at each other until Dean clears his throat. “So, uh, have the police been by yet?”

                “No,” Cas says distractedly. “I only woke up recently. Is that—is that why you’re here?”

                “Jesus, no!” Dean says. He reaches across the bed and finds Cas’s hand, firm and warm beneath the transparent plastic. He firmly clasps it between his two hands. “I came because I wanted to see you. Because you’re my friend, and I’ve been out of mind looking for you, and I’m so glad you’re okay, you have no idea.”

                Cas is staring down at their joined hands, his mouth twitching. His thumb tentatively worms out of Dean’s grasp and starts running along his palm, his fingers, and Dean lets out a shaky exhale.

                “They knocked me out,” Cas says. “When I woke up I was in that warehouse. They knew, somehow, about my abilities. I didn’t know who they were at first, but when you look through enough minds you get the general idea.”

                He sits for a long moment, silent, and his thumb starts petting over the back of Dean’s hand again. “It’s not—it’s not good for me. To be so barraged by other’s thoughts and feelings and pain and illnesses, one after the other. They weren’t happy with me saying everything out loud, either—” He gestures loosely to his split lip, his bruised cheek. “They were all such bad men, Dean, and I knew all the worst things about them. I was sure I wasn’t going to live the night.”

                Dean drops his forehead onto the railing of the bed. Fuckin’ Christ, he thinks. He had been so close to losing Cas, hadn’t even known how much he cared until that phone call.

                “And then—they started shouting and running,” Cas says dreamily. “And I was all alone again, but it was hard to focus. The last thing I thought I saw was you. So when I woke up today, I had to know. Everything was hazy, but I was so scared that you’d been brought there too. Now I see—you saved me, Dean. Thank you.”

                Dean can’t say anything to that. He lifts his head from the railing and draws Cas’s hand to his lips. He brushes his mouth over each knuckle. Cas just stares, eyes blown out from pain pills.

                There’s a sound at the entrance, and Dean drops Cas’s hand from his lips. Balth is standing there with a little plastic cup of pills, a clipboard under his arm, and a smug expression.

                “Charming,” he says. “But I have to interrupt to bring a snack for you, Jimmy. Just what the doctor ordered.”

                Dean probably wouldn’t have even noticed, but what he did notice was Cas’s furtive look over at him, suddenly serious and aware. Dean’s mind replays back the comment—Jimmy?

                Dean affects complete unconcern, like he hasn’t even been listening. He strokes Cas’s hand and he relaxes.

                Balth is saying something about potential PTSD, support groups, discharge papers, but Dean’s sidetracked. The nurse is standing next to Dean now, the clipboard peeking out from under his arm, and Dean can say the patient information clearly from here. _Novak, James C._

                He quickly looks away, swallowing. He shouldn’t have seen that. He really, really shouldn’t have seen that.

                Cas is swallowing pills with an expression of distaste, and he turns to look at Dean and smiles—the wide, carefree smile of someone who dodged a bullet. Dean smiles back, even as his stomach contracts in guilt.

**

                Dean thinks, sometimes, that he too much like his father.

                He’s used to being clapped on the back, lauded for his persistence. Like being dogged and stubborn and not knowing when to give up are good things. In the journalism field, maybe.

                But sometimes Dean gets nervous. John never knew when to quit. He was too goddamn persistent. He lost Dean and Sam’s lunch money in a bet—petty stuff, right? And then the antique china that was Mary’s mother’s, and then the minivan, and then his wedding band. He just couldn’t stop himself, sure that the payout was imminent. John just couldn’t let something lie—he decided to be a gambler, and he had to see it through, more thoroughly than anyone else, gambling away his kids and his house and his life.

                It shouldn’t bother Dean as much as it does, knowing Cas’s real name. Cas never wanted him to know it, and he didn’t exactly gain it from the most ethical of methods. But he’s just so curious—all that history that Cas would never go into, the secrecy, the impenetrable wall that he puts up. It’s not fair, this disconnect—that Cas would know Dean’s darkest thoughts, and until today Dean didn’t even know his real name.

                He broods over this while he’s at the office. Victor wants to see him soon, but not for another half hour or so, and Jo’s gone—so he’s left to his thoughts. It shouldn’t bother Dean, but it does—because he’s a journalist, and he’s spent months on this story, even though he’s not sure he wants to write it anymore. He spent weeks researching Cas to get zero, zilch, nada. He’s been slavering away just for _one_ tidbit of information, and now that he has it, he sees all the possibilities. There are things Dean wants to know about him, and it’s in Dean’s job description to find out.

                Except—he’s shown his hand now. He’s no longer just some hounding journalist, acquiring information, impartially doling it out. He’s friends with Cas now. That makes things different.

                A half hour later, he’s in Victor’s office with Jo. Victor’s regarding them with something like fatherly pride.

                “We have an interesting situation here,” he says. “Everyone wants to know just who this man is who was saved, via dramatic police involvement, from Lucian’s gang. And we just happen to have a story written by Dean about how said man is a conman, and a story from Jo about Lucian’s cartel. We have the information everyone in Chicago is clamoring for.”

                “Dean, I know your story’s in the works, but you need to wrap it up. We need to get this out while it’s still timely. Your story out by Saturday, and then Jo’s serial can build off of that immediately. Four straight issues of hard-hitting journalism.” Victor smiles his approval.

                “Uh,” Dean says. “That’s um, really exciting, but I haven’t put that certain _spin_ on it yet. That we talked about. So. There’s that.”

                “So you have four days now,” Victor says. “What’s the problem?”

                Dean flounders. “Um, nothing…” He starts weakly.

                What is there to say? He was kissing Cas’s fingertips like the man was an English debutante just hours ago. Now he’s back to reality, expected to tear the guy apart as a thieving, malicious conman.

                “Dean’s been put in a hard position,” Jo says. “He has a personal investment with his source.”

                Dean turns to stare. “ _Jo_ —”

                “Victor already knew that,” Jo says, shrugging. Now that Dean’s turned to her, he sees she’s looking upset. “All I’m saying is, you don’t want to write that article anymore, and I lost my most important source for you. So let’s do something that’s in everyone’s best interest. I’ll absorb you piece on Castiel into my own story.”

                “What.” Dean says flatly.

                Victor only arches an eyebrow. “Go on,” he says.

                “Castiel is just one small part of a variety of Lucian’s crimes against the city. It makes sense for it to be incorporated into my story. I’ll interview the guy, assume Dean’s information, and work it into my own piece. Easy.”

                “Is this about you not wanting to share the spotlight with me?” Dean says incredulously.

                “You’re implying there was ever a spotlight for me to share,” Jo returns. “Look, I’ve spent months on this story. _Months_. And I was willing to give up my mole, my best source, because your friend was in trouble. He deserved for me to do that, too. But the danger’s past now, and we need to be real.”

                “Jesus, Jo,” Dean says. He drags a hand down his face. “So you’re just gonna ninja-six me with the old, ‘there are no friends in journalism’ thing out of nowhere? We gotta play tough with each other?”

                “This isn’t about me and you,” Jo says, voice rising. “This is about you and your source. I’ve been working my ass off, _plus_ doing your cast-off stories, while you’re having a identity crisis over your feelings for Cas. Well, if you don’t want to write the story so bad, I’ll write it for you. Easily.”

                Dean leans towards Jo, as if Victor isn’t even there to overhear. “I get it—you worked hard, and you want to have the podium to yourself. Fine. But you’ve been with me every step of the way—we both know Cas is a good guy, and this story—”

                “Gets written,” Victor interrupts. “We’ve had this talk. Jo has a point, Dean, so decide—give your piece to Jo, or write it yourself.”

                Dean stands up. “Victor, come on!” He says. “You’ve been here the past few days. The guy just got _kidnapped_ , and you want a story dragging him through the mud?”

                “This isn’t about feelings, it’s about business,” Victor says bluntly. “And I actually think we’re being fair—you’ve shown you’re hesitant to write this piece. You can give it to Jo and be done with it.”

                Jo looks up at him, too, and just—fuck. He can get that Jo’s been waiting for years for her big break, but to throw Dean under the bus? Make it seem like he can’t handle writing a story?

                “I’ll write it,” Dean growls. “Thanks for going _All About Eve_ on me, guys. It’s been really fun.”

                Dean stomps from the room, slamming the door behind him. He’s still stewing as he walks to his desk, dropping into his seat with a grunt. While he still had a byline here, he was gonna write what he wanted to write about. And he was gonna write that story about Cas, and he was going to be _fair_ , and—

                And Cas doesn’t want the story written, and Victor does, and there’s no way to talk about Cas that would make both parties satisfied. Fuckin’ Christ.

                Dean had to admit, he had no idea what to do.

**

                Fifteen minutes later, Jo stomps back to her cubicle, completely ignoring him. She opens and slams a few drawers, and then comes to his doorway.              

                “Was I so wrong?” She says aggressively. “You’ve made it perfectly clear you have feelings for Cas, you went nutso when he was taken. And now you want to personally write a hurtful story?”

                “I can’t talk to you about this,” Dean says. “Or, rather—I _would_ have talked to you about it, and your completely valid concerns, if you chose to speak them _not in our boss’s office_. Dick move, Jo.”

                “Fine, I was trying to pressure you a little,” Jo says. “Like you’re always pressuring me—to take the stories you don’t want, to go with you to Cas’s house, to be wrong about Cas’s abilities, to give up my source to help you.”

                “ _Where_ is this coming from?” Dean says.

                “It was in your best interest, too, by the way. But God forbid you do something _I_ want you to do.”

                “’Cause it wasn’t benefitting you at all, right? Leave me alone, Jo. I really can’t do this with you right now.”

                Jo huffs, opens her mouth to say something, and closes it again. Dean sits in his chair with a sick, sinking feeling, listening to her move around in her desk. On his computer, he gets the trill of a new message. His heart sinks even lower.

                _Dean—major paydirt! Come down to Nerd HQ and I’ll show you what I’ve got. –Ash_

                Dean sits there, thinking, his mouse cursor hovering over the email.

                “Dean,” Jo demands from her cubicle. She sounds angry, panicked. “Did you take the note? The note my source gave me?”

                Dean exits his email and stands up. “Stealing other peoples’ stories? Doesn’t sound like _my_ MO.”

                He leaves too fast to hear Jo’s reply.

**

                Late that night, Dean is sitting in his office at his apartment, looking through the large stack of files that Ash had supplied him with.

                The more he reads, the more guilty he feels—because there’s a reason Cas didn’t want Dean to know this. Some stuff is way too personal to be smeared across the front page of the _Chicago Sun_.

                The thing is—Ash was right. This is paydirt, the kind that would help balance Cas on the page into someone who doesn’t fit any one image. A conman, like Victor wants, but a sympathetic one. Someone with a past like that, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

                Dean spreads the newspaper clippings across his desk, trying to order them chronologically. There’s the initial story, by the _Pontiac Bugler_ , that tells of a sixteen-year-old Jimmy Novak wandering in the snow, shoeless, at a loss.

                “ _It was like he had never seen outside before,” said Allen. “And after I called the police, I tried to get him to come inside with me—he wouldn’t let me touch him. That seemed strange.”_

That was a quote from Daphne Allen, the woman who had found Cas and taken him in. And then the newspaper clippings just snowball—all the coverage a small town wanted to give a local scandal. That Cas’s father, Raphe Novak, was charged with two counts of child abuse—one for keeping a child locked up in the house, and the other for physically abusing his other son, Gabriel.

                Child Protective Services is trotted out and made to look like an ass. The school had never noticed any strange marks on Gabriel. The county was not aware that Raphe Novak even had another son.

                A blurb that James and Gabriel had become wards of the state, put into the foster system. More follow-up on the trial and ultimate jail sentence for their father.

                There, at the bottom of the file, is what Ash really wanted to show Dean. He won’t say how he obtained it, but he has friends high and low, and Dean suspects it has something to do with hacking or bribery. There’s a thick, foreboding stack of papers—Cas’s sealed foster files. All the strange, discomfiting things that happened to him in one year, too many foster families to count,  before he appealed for legal emancipation and disappeared off the map.

                Dean realizes that Cas didn’t just want the Chicago public not to know about his painful past. He hadn’t shared those things with Dean, either. And suddenly, hatefully, Dean is all too aware of how much he’s been acting like his father. Pushing and pushing when he should have given up long ago. Being a dogged, stubborn jackass who wouldn’t quit, even when it hurt other people.

                Because maybe Cas was a rare thing, a great thing, who was treated miserably in his past, but was still trying to _get_ people, to read people, to help them and hope they could help him, too.

                Dean doesn’t open Cas’s foster records. Instead, he slowly and methodically takes down all the shit from the past months that has accumulated on his corkboard—stuff about placebo effects and Ava Wilson and the man Dean met in the bar. He sweeps them all into the trashcan, throwing everything Ash gave him today on top of it.

                He takes out his cell phone and calls the hospital—the nurse tells him it’s too late to talk, so he leaves a message.

                “Tell him I’ll pick him up when he’s discharged tomorrow,” Dean says. The guilty knot in his stomach is slowly coming unclenched. “Tell him we can go for a drive, get to know each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The snail slowly reaches for the finish line...  
> No mean cliffhanger this week, as I am a generous person sometimes.   
> Poor Jo...she has her reasons, I swear!
> 
> I love everybody who is reading, commenting, reviewing...thank you!
> 
> Next chapter: Cas comes over, Sam and Jess get way too invested, Dean is sometimes not the smartest bulb.   
> Next, next chapter: A promotion, a wedding, an anticipated meeting.


	15. The Vanishing Act

Dean was planning on telling Victor that he wasn’t going to write the story anymore, but the _Sun_ office was flush with cops from the moment he got off the elevator.

                “What the…” He says. There are three cops poking through Jo’s cubicle, and he can see another two off to the side, talking to nervous journalists—people not used to being the interviewees.

                A sick swoop of feeling goes through his whole  body, thinking of how his last conversation with Jo ended. Was she okay? What had happened?

                “Dean,” someone says. He turns to his right and sees Victor, Jo and a policewoman standing off to the side, watching the proceedings.

                “Jo,” he says, hurrying over. “You’re alright? What’s going on?”

                Jo gives him a strange, guilty look—they’re relationship isn’t exactly in full bloom right now. She reaches out a hand and lays it gently, briefly, on his arm.

                “Everything’s fine,” she says. “Thanks.  I, uh, need your help with something.”

                “Sure,” Dean nods. “Anything. What’s up?”

                The policewoman at Jo’s side flips open a notebook. “You’re familiar with the note that Miss Harvelle said she received from a source at Bela Luchia?”

                “Uh, sure,” Dean says.

                “Could you tell me the gist of it?”

                “That Jo could meet up with her somewhere at Bela Luchia on a certain night.”

                “Okay,” the woman says. “Do you remember where Jo put the note when she finished showing it to you?”

                Dean tips his head back, thinking. “Uh…” He’s very aware of all three pairs of eyes boring into him. “Her desk drawer. Her top desk drawer on the left.”

                He doesn’t miss Jo’s relieved sigh.

                “And when Mayor Lindsey Abaddon was here last week, can you remember any specific details of the meeting that Jo gave you?”

                “That she was curious about Jo’s source,” Dean shrugs. “Really friendly, but also kinda pushy and demanding.”

                “Alright,” the policewoman says, flipping the pad closed. “That all seems to corroborate Miss Harvelle’s recollection of events.”

                She has Dean give her a number in case she  has any more questions, and finally walks away. Dean turns back to  Jo, raising an eyebrow.

                “Care to share what’s going on?”

                Jo’s dangerous look dares him to laugh. “I reported Abaddon for theft last night.”

                “You— _what_?”

                “I called the police on Abaddon last night,” Jo repeats. “A lot happened after our fight, okay? I couldn’t figure out how the note disappeared, unless someone who works here was going through my stuff. But then I remembered that Abaddon was totally grilling me when she was here, and she kept on making me leave to get her cups of water and shit.”

                “Why would Abaddon lift something from your desk?” Dean asks incredulously.

                “Because she’s not as squeaky-clean as she’s trying to appear,” Jo says excitedly. “It’s so clever. See, she had Lucian’s group help bribe her into office—”

                “Jo,” Victor says lowly. “Let’s talk about this sensitive information later, when we’re not surrounded by listeners. We have a lot to talk about, especially considering your legal and personal safety, now that you’ve accused Abaddon. Let’s talk in my office.”

                “But—” Dean says. Victor gives him a curt nod and starts walking to his door. Jo shrugs and looks back at him, mouthing ‘later.’

                Well, great. Jo’s jumped the ladder from Lucian’s gang to Lucian’s gang _plus_ the mayor of Chicago. Like Dean doesn’t have enough to worry about already.

                He waits until the police have finished looking through Jo’s cubicle, because he gets the feeling what he’s about to do next is going to look suspicious. When they’re finally gone, he loads up his computer and deletes all the notes he had typed up about Cas. Deletes anything in his hard drive that could lead back to Cas—stuff like Ava Wilson, or emailing Ash. He tears the tape out of his recorder and puts it through the paper shredder.

                He doesn’t think Victor would go to those lengths to get the story out of him. He’s just finally realizing that it doesn’t matter if it was the whole entire metropolitan area of Chicago, or all the people in the office, or ten people, or two. Cas only chose to share these things with Dean. Dean can respect that.

                He waits for a few hours, halfheartedly trying to brainstorm great ideas to weather Victor’s wrath. Jo still doesn’t come back. Eventually he leaves, still curious. He leaves a Post-It on Jo’s cubicle to call him.

                He leaves the office knowing that there’s not going to be any story written on Cas—not by him, not by anyone.

**

                He still hasn’t heard from Cas, so he goes back to his apartment.

                Now that he got his big project for the day out of the way, he’s becoming nervous. Almost all the times he’s ever seen Cas, he’s been doing it for a purpose. On the job. Trying to push his buttons and make him say incriminating things.

                Now, things are—different. Dean blushes just thinking about it. He wants to take Cas out again in the Impala with the windows down. To blast classic rock and teach him a thing or two about music. They could do dumb stuff, cute stuff, the things that people on dates would do. Cas probably wouldn’t even realize, as socially clueless as he is, how stereotypical and gooey and romantic it would be if Dean took Cas out to a nice restaurant, or a trip to the pier, or to the fuckin’ zoo.

                There are so many other things, too, those stereotypical, gooey, romantic things that Dean would _love_ to do with Cas. Hold hands under the table at a restaurant. Sneak a kiss at the top of the Ferris wheel. Dean can admit these things to himself, finally. He wants to see Cas’s eyes open wide in wonder, to coax out Cas’s disbelieving smiles into _real_ ones—that Cas could see that he’s allowed to smile, that good things can happen. He wants Cas smiling for every day of the rest of his life.

                Then Dean thinks about how he doesn’t even know if Cas feels the same way, and deflates a bit. Cas wants, more than anything, a friend. Well, Dean can be that, at least. Dean would love to be that, until he figures out where he stands with the guy.

                Still a little worked up, he starts tidying up around the apartment, just for something to do. Sam and Jess want to get together sometime this week for dinner—it’s his turn to host. Sam normally rolls his eyes at the eternal bachelor state of his place anyway—he can count on Sam to run the Swiffer over his bookshelves, chiding Dean about nasal blockage—but it wouldn’t hurt to get some stuff out of the way.

                He loads the dishwasher. Scrubs down the table. He waits for the phone to ring—Cas _was_ supposed to get discharged today, right? Maybe he’s making an assumption that the first thing Cas would want to do is go off for a joyride with Dean—Dean, who’s partially responsible for putting him in the hospital in the first place. (Does Cas know that? Dean never thought to say, when he was there. He had more important things to think about.)

                Dean’s in his office, trying to heft out his overfilled trashbag, when there’s a loud knock on his door, startling him into dropping the bag.

                “Son of a bitch,” he says, trying to shove wads of papers and burger wrappers back into the bag. “Who is it?”

                There’s some sort of unintellible talk, and then a slightly more cautious knock, so Dean shoves the mess to the side and walks to the door. Through the peephole, he sees—Cas?

                He’s immediately aware he’s been hardcore cleaning since he got home, that his T-shirt probably smells like sweat, and he’s wearing mismatched socks. He quickly runs a hand through his hair, patting it down. He looks around to see if there’s a nearby hoodie to put on over his T-shirt, but when he looks through the peephole again, quickly, he sees Cas shifting away from the door, looking anxious.

                Afraid that Cas is about to bolt, he quickly swings the door open. Cas looks up, startled.

                “Hi,” Dean breathes, sounding stereotypical and gooey and romantic.

                “Hello, Dean,” Cas says. “Your, um, brother and fiancée came to see me at the hospital.” Dean can tell how pleased that makes Cas, that he would have a total of  three more visitors than he ever expected.

                “Sam and Jess? Why?”

                “They suggested we should all have dinner together tonight,” Cas said. “They said it would be okay with you; you were already planning on having them over anyways.”

                “Right,” Dean says, still scrambling to make sense of this. What kind of interference was this? He could swear this is an opportunity for Jess to make him squirm in his seat while she coos over how handsome Cas is.

                “Unless,” Cas says. He looks unsure, awkward, in Dean’s hallway. “Unless it’s not okay with you. I don’t want to intrude.”

                “It’s more than okay,” Dean practically yells. His arm shoots out and he grabs Cas’s newly gloved hand, hauling him inside. “I was just surprised, is all. But it’s a good change of plans.”

                “Good,” Cas says, smiling at Dean. Then he looks around the doorway they’re standing in and says in a formal, practiced tone, “You  have a lovely home, Dean.” Like he picked that phrase up in a how-to book on dinner guests. It makes Dean’s heart do a stupid wiggle.

                “Thanks,” Dean says. “I was gonna pick you up, man. How’d you get here?”

                “I took the bus,” Cas says, now turning in a full circle to take in Dean’s front room. “Should I take my coat and shoes off?”

                “Don’t worry about your shoes,” Dean says. He trips over to Cas and slides his coat off for him.  There’s still a bit of blood on it, and underneath Cas is wearing a huge T-shirt that says _Chicago Mercy Hospital_  and the same ill-fitting slacks Dean’s seen before.  

                After hanging the coat in the closet, he comes back to find Cas examining his DVD collection.

                “You got a clean bill of health, then?” Dean says.

                “Yes,” says Cas, studying the front of _Monty Python_ with a confused frown. He looks up. “The police came; they said it might be a good idea for me to not go back to my house for a while. They are not sure yet if Lucian’s people are going to attempt anything else.”

                “That’s good,” Dean says fervently. Since when is Dean a worse conversationalist than Cas? He gestures to the kitchen with a feeble hand. “I’m gonna get us some drinks, okay? A beer good? Make yourself at home. Feel free to check out the dining room, my office—the bathroom, if you need it. Okay. Here I go.”

                He darts into his kitchen, wincing. Check out the bathroom, Cas? Seriously?

                He walks to the fridge and grabs two bottlenecks. He can hear Cas still rifling through his DVD collection, so he fumbles out his phone and texts Sam.

                _Family dinner, SAM? No warning?_

A few minutes later, his phone chirps back at him. _Didn’t want you to overthink it. If he’s there now, Jess and I can head over soon. We’re picking up dessert!_

Bastard. Dean sends him a frowny-face emoticon and pockets his phone. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down, he twists off the caps and walks with them into the front room. Cas isn’t kneeling down by the DVDs anymore. He’s standing off to the side, frowning out the window.

                “Got you a drink,” Dean says. “We should probably order something to eat before they get here. Pizza? Chinese?”

                Cas turns to him. Something about his face seems off, frozen, but Dean doesn’t have time to think about that before Cas says, “I was Steve before this. Emmanuel, too. And a list of other names, too long to mention.”

                “Oh-kay,” Dean says. “Want to sit down?”

                “No,” Cas says. “Before that, I didn’t have a name. I was a homeless nobody living underneath a bridge, taking anything I could to dull my abilities. At least there, me saying I had the power to heal the sick wasn’t the craziest thing anyone could claim.”

                “Cas,” Dean says. “What’s going on? We can talk about this if you want to, but—”

                “Or do you want to hear about before _that_ , when I was bounced from foster home to foster home, because I scared everyone? Just tell me what you’re looking for, Dean. I want to know.”

                “Cas,” Dean says helplessly. “What are you talking about?”

                Cas shakes his head, turning away for a moment before turning back. “It’s so hilarious, Dean, isn’t it? That I keep coming back. It’s just too _funny_ , how desperate I am to believe every lie you say.”

                Dean feels his heart fall into his shoes, hot stinging needles of guilt up his spine, beneath his arms. “Wha—” He says. “What am I lying to you about?”

                Cas points to the door of his office. “Your trash was all over the floor,” he says coldly, voice trembling. “You didn’t hide it very well. My foster files. Daphne Allen. My father.”

                “Shit,” Dean says. He fumbles the beer down onto the coffee table, taking a step towards Cas. “I swear, this is not what it looks like. I’m not--”

                “Writing the story anymore?” Cas says. He takes a step back, holding his hands out like he would push Dean away if he got any closer. “Pretending to be my friend? Was this whole thing just a set-up, Dean—a nice dinner with your brother and his fiancée and you, buttering me up into saying things I shouldn’t?”

                “Cas I _wouldn’t_ ,” Dean says. His voice is pleading. “Look, I dropped the story. When I came to the hospital, I wasn’t lying, I _was_ there just to see you.”

                “Stop!” Cas says. It’s the first time Dean’s ever seen him angry. He’s trembling, across the room from Dean, his hands curled into fists. “Stop lying to me! I know you found out my real name at the hospital, Dean, or else you never would have found those files.”

                “I—” Dean says. He doesn’t have a good answer for that, but Cas is furious and two seconds from walking out the door, and he’s scrambling for a response. “That wasn’t cool of me, I know that, okay? I’m sorry. I have this problem—it’s not an excuse—sometimes I just don’t recognize my boundaries—”

                Cas shakes his head, a violent motion. “I kept on thinking it was my fault, as usual. But this time you led me on, _you_ pretended we were something that we’re not. This concludes our meetings, Dean. I hope you got everything you needed for your story.”

                He’s walking to the door, his shoulders high around his ears. “This wasn’t for a story, Cas, come on!” Dean says. He crosses the room, hand out to grasp his shoulder. “I really fucked up, okay, but I’m you frie—”

                Cas whirls around, and the tears in his eyes are enough to make Dean drop his hand. “I don’t have any _friends_ ,” he says. “I don’t have any _one.”_

“Cas—”

                “Thank you,” Cas says, his voice so awfully earnest, wiping his hand across his eyes. “Thank you for having me over to your home, Dean. Have a wonderful life.”

                He wrenches open the door—on the other side are Sam and Jess. Sam’s poised to knock, and Jess has a pie in her hands with her mouth open.

                “Excuse me,” Cas says, aggressively polite, and before Dean can say anything, he’s gone.

                Sam turns back to  his brother. “Dean, what the hell?”

                Dean slumps against the wall, his head still spinning. “Sam,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “I think I really fucked up.”

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This angst, it kills the man.  
> ughhh. alright, i was originally planning for happy endings as of last chapter, but it was kinda bothering me how easy dean was getting off the hook. i love him to pieces, but it's really unfair to cas to just go from using him for journalism fame to being his romantic interest just like that. shouldn't cas have something to say for this decision? i think cas is way too forgiving and nice by nature, and i wanted him to have the opportunity to weigh the relationship and see if it works for HIM, not just because dean's interested and he's the only guy who's been kind to cas lately.  
> hope that makes sense. I PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE the fluff is just around the corner. 
> 
> next chapter: jo finally gets what she deserves, there's a wedding, there's an investigation, and a lot of pining.  
> next, next chapter: cas has made a new life for himself.


	16. The Cards Up Your Sleeve

**March**

It doesn’t matter that Dean is sorry, because Cas is just plain gone. After a night of sympathy (for Dean) and outrage (on Cas’s behalf) from his team of relationship experts in Sam and Jess, he drives to Montclair Avenue with a bowling ball of nerves in his stomach. It doesn’t matter, though—the house is empty, locked up, and there’s already a FOR SALE sign in the front yard.

                Becky, when Dean calls her, is sympathetic but ultimately unhelpful.

                “I got a letter from him thanking me for my help over the past few months,” she says. “But it didn’t have a forwarding address.”

                So Dean calls GN Properties, and gets nothing but  an automated voicemail. Calls Linda Tran, calls in the last of his favors, hoping that Cas was moved somewhere, had been forced to go because of problematic Lucian retribution—but there’s nothing in that, either. They don’t know where Cas is.

                So that’s it, then. Cas is gone, and he doesn’t want to be found. Case closed. Move on.

                At the _Sun_ , Victor is less than pleased with him. He calls Dean and Jo in for another joint session.

                “Winchester, you guaranteed you’d have a story on this guy,” Victor says. “You promised it completed by this weekend. What’s going on with you?”

                “I don’t know,” Dean says. “I’m sorry.”

                “Sorry’s not good enough. I sunk money into that story.”

                “Well, I’m not going to go all _Shattered Glass_ just to write the piece that only exists in your head,” Dean says. “Which means it’s not gonna get written. So there’s that.”

                Victor turns to Jo. “Well, I guess it can get lumped into your story on Lucian’s criminal—”

                But Jo isn’t looking at her boss. She’s looking critically at Dean’s slumped posture, the tired bags under his eyes, the shirt he wore yesterday. She turns back to Victor and shakes her head. “I’m not writing the piece either,” she says firmly.

                Victor yells for about five minutes, but neither of them budge. And when he realizes that Dean deleted all of his notes, and that without those notes, the only people who have ever interviewed Cas are sitting in the room with him, refusing to write the story—well, he has to ungraciously concede defeat.

                So there’s a lot of yelling about taking it out of their paychecks and sticking them with the obituaries for the rest of the year, and be glad he isn’t firing them for the way they’re acting.

                “And _you_ ,” he says, rounding once more on Dean. “You’re okay with your byline off the front page for two to three months? You’re content to sit off to the side and be a desk jockey for the foreseeable future?”

                “For the foreseeable future, the front page is going to be all Jo’s serial,” Dean says. “And if anyone deserves to be there, it’s Jo Harvelle.”

                Victor shakes his head, rubs his forehead like he has a migraine coming on. Dean isn’t paying attention. Jo’s smiling at him, and he’s smiling back, and he’s thinking maybe out of this whole big mess, one thing might turn out okay.

**April**

Jo’s story is picked up by the AP, broadcasted nationally. Turns out that Lucian and his cartel had been dabbling in politics—had, in fact, bribed and lied and paved the way for Abaddon to get elected Mayor. This was supposed to come with the promise that she would look the other way on their deeds once she was in office—which she did. But making a promise with a politician, you always need to be on the lookout for loopholes.

                “That’s why she was so obsessed with knowing if I had found the mole or not,” Jo says, keeping Dean company while he slogs through stories about the new commemorative statue in the park or the recent private donation of old VHS tapes to the public schools so they wouldn’t have to pay for DVD players (appearing on pages 15 and 27, respectively). “It was her mole, and she didn’t want anything leading back to her. If she hadn’t been so grabby-handed in my office, I probably never would have connected the dots.”

                As it was, Abaddon had planted someone to destroy Lucian’s cartel one dead body at a time, and was buying up his warehouses as soon as the investigations were competed. Annihilating a less-than-savory connection to her campaign, as well as snatching up waterfront property, had been doing her well until Jo started sniffing around the scene. Now Abaddon’s been impeached, Jo’s a household name, and their political atmosphere is in turmoil—not that Dean’s allowed to report on any of it.

                “I’m sorry I was so mean to you,” Jo says. “When I lost my big source to help you find C—him, I knew that I was finally getting my big break and had nothing to show for it. I was afraid I wasn’t going live up to all the hype.”

                “It’s okay,” Dean says. He’s wondering how to get a dead-boring story about the cost of subway renovations up to word count. “You’re allowed to be ambitious.”

                “Yeah, but I also learned a good lesson about sticking to my values,” Jo says. “I was never put in that situation until I refused to write _that_ story.”

                They both know which story.

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Thanks for that, again.”

                Later, after Jo leaves, Dean tries GN Properties for the millionth time. He leaves another voice mail and another pathetic entreaty to please call him back, to please let him know if Cas had left a forwarding address.

                As usual, he gets nothing in return. He shouldn’t be surprised. Cas moved from city to city, house to house, with a kind of secretive anonymity that made him easily forgettable. Except for his clients, except for Dean, who would really remember the man in the trench coat who paid in all cash? The man who had timid smiles and elegant gloved hands that he would twist in his lap when he got nervous—nervous because someone was talking to him like he was an actual person, scared that the moment was a one-time thing, never to be repeated.

                Sometimes Dean isn’t sure why he passed up on the story. He feels like he could write thousands upon thousands of words on Castiel. He’d like to put those words out into the void and see if anything came of it. Maybe someone would see what Dean wrote down and could say, “Hey, I know just the guy you’re talking about.”

                He would never do that to Cas now, even though the story is different. What was once supposed to be an accusation, as good as a WANTED sign, has become something different.

                MISSING, the story would say. IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL DEAN WINCHESTER.   

                Dean won’t do it, but sometimes he wishes he could.

**May**

Sam and Jess get married, and Dean’s the Best Man. It’s a beautiful outdoor wedding, on a day that is warm but also a little windy. A beautiful picture comes out of it—Sam pinning back Jess’s windblown veil so he can kiss her, the both of them laughing. Later, Dean will get a copy of it and put it on his desk.

                It’s one of the happiest days that Dean’s had in a long time. He dances with Jess, and Jess’s mother, and even her grandma, who has surprisingly wandering hands. He gives a nostalgic, fond toast that has the attendees laughing and Sam crying.

                “When Sam was eight, he wanted to prove his Batman was better than my Superman, so he jumped off Bobby’s shed roof and broke his arm,” he says. “I’m seeing a pattern here. When Sam was twenty five, he met Jess, and right afterwards fell down a whole flight of stairs while he was showing off. Jess was in nursing school, so she was there to bandage his wounded ego.” His brother immediately starts sniffling.  

                They pose for pictures until his cheeks hurt from smiling, his head close to Sam’s, or his arm around Jess’s waist. There’s a picture of him and Bobby straightening each others’ ties. Another of Sam putting his elbow on Dean’s head smugly, laughing.

                He sits underneath the fairy lights later that night, watching people waltz on the floor, switching partners. Sam dances with Jody. Jo and Jess laugh in the corner, tipsy.

                Sam comes over to sit with Dean, offering him another drink.

                “Why do people always say this is the bride’s happiest day of her life?” Sam says. “All my favorite people are here, and I’m getting married to the love of my life. What’s supposed to top this?”

                “I don’t know,” Dean says. “Bears win the Super Bowl. Getting a promotion. Building something. Manly stuff.”

                “Yeah,” Sam says. He’s silent for a long moment. “Dean—the point of your speech. It was about how sometimes we make big, grand stupid gestures. It can be kinda humiliating, but putting yourself out there—you get what you ask for.”

                “Is that what I was saying?” Dean asks. He looks sideways at his brother, smiling. “I thought I was just telling all the embarrassing stories about you I could remember.”

                Sam persists. “I’m just saying, I know you’re hung up on the Cas thing.”

                “Sammy--”

                “No, Dean. Listen. It’s been months. You’ve been putting on a good face, but I know it’s been bothering you. If he wasn’t a big deal, you wouldn’t still be thinking about him.”

                Why wouldn’t it be a big deal? Dean fucked up, and fucked Cas over, by making the same mistakes one too many times. Dean has come to realize that Cas doesn’t use people—that was the big hinge of his expose, right? No, people use Cas: as a scapegoat, as a tool, an oddity, a weapon. A story.

                As usual, it’s like Sam knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Some people aren’t meant to be quote machines that you plug into your articles,” Sam says. “They’re not meant to exist solely as sources in your stories, Dean.”

                Dean looks away, shaking his head. “And what do I do to fix that? I’ve been trying to find the guy for months.”

                “Have you been trying to feel better about yourself?” Sam says.  “Or have you been putting yourself out there? There’s a difference.”

                Later, after Sam and Jess mash cake into each others’ faces; later, after they sway in front of a microphone, icing in their hair, and give a rowdy rendition of “their song;” later, after they announce, glowing, that Jess is two months pregnant, Dean finds himself outside the tent, staring down at his phone.

                He’s noticed something he hasn’t noticed before. Maybe desperation, or drink, has given him a new perspective on things. GN Properties. GN—Gabriel Novak? He never does quite recall what he slurs into the voicemail that night. But it’s probably honest and brutal and humiliating, it’s most definitely putting himself out there.

                When he wakes up the next morning with a raging headache, sprawled across a hotel bed with Jo snoring on the pull-out trundle bed, he sees his phone light up from a missed call. Looks like GN Properties wants to talk to him.

**June**

                “I _was_ in Thailand,” Gabriel agrees. “That was ages ago. I’m in India now.”

                Dean and Gabriel Novak have been keeping up some tenuous phone exchanges since the end of May, when Dean apparently poured his heart out over the phone at Sam and Jess’s reception. Gabriel had found that pathetic enough to finally return his calls. There were a few conditions—that Dean paid for all the long-distance minutes. That he would have to listen silently while Gabriel waxed eloquent about his girlfriend, Kali. And most importantly, to not ask about Cas, but let Gabriel bring it up himself.

                “Were you planning on coming home anytime soon and actually seeing your brother?” Dean asks. He’s breaking one of the conditions right now; he can’t help it.

                “My job takes me all over the world,” Gabriel says. “If they send me to India, I go to India. Can’t say I’m complaining.”

                Gabriel has, despite his longwinded descriptions of Kali’s beauty and the scenic vistas he’s seen in his visits abroad, let some details about his and Cas’s past come to light. Things like, he was the one who found Cas homeless, strung out, under a bridge, and got him clean. Things like, he owns GN Properties for the exclusive reason of buying his little brother houses and letting Cas pay him back as he gradually earns money—looking out for Cas from across the world.

                “Well, I’m happy for you,” Dean says. “Meanwhile, your brother is alone in the States feeling like he doesn’t have a single person who cares about him.”

                “And whose problem is that?” Gabriel says lightly. Gabriel has somehow been keeping tabs on Cas, even though they rarely talk. He knows that Dean was writing a story on Cas. Had continued to think that, until Dean had gone Party City and slurred his feelings all over the mouthpiece of his phone one night.

                “If you told me where he was, I could apologize—” Dean starts quickly.

                “Not so fast,” Gabriel says. “Let’s get something straight. I love my brother, okay? But you don’t know a single dime as to what went down in our childhood. So if you’re going to judge me for not letting him cry on my shoulder right now, then you might as well hang up now.”

                “I’m not judging you,” Dean says.

                “Good,” Gabriel says. “Good. Look, Cassy and I didn’t get along when we were younger. Our dad was using him as a certified angel from god, miracle worker shit. Moved around the country so CPS wouldn’t come after him. He trained Cas up like a little soldier—five years old, he would walk up to me, touch my forehead, and tell Dad if I was lying about skipping school or not, if I was the one who broke the back window. It was brutal.”

                “You say you have a younger brother?” Gabriel says after a long pause. “Well, pretend your younger brother was the SS. Now pretend that whenever your younger brother didn’t have control over his freaky mind-reading powers, when he doesn’t heal the sick and dying customers like he’s supposed to, your father chooses to take your anger out on _you_. Now add on top of that, that I’m failing out of school, the teachers won’t stay out of my business, and I’m trying to never let it slip my younger brother is the hoodoo version of Boo Radley. If you were in my position,  wouldn’t you have hated him?”

                It seems to be a rhetorical question. Dean can’t imagine ever hating Sam, but he also can’t imagine his father ever pitting him against his brother.

                “I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I haven’t been fair in my judgment of you.”

                “I’m not telling you this for sympathy,” Gabriel snorts. “I’m telling you to try to help you understand. After Cassy escaped, we didn’t see each other for years. It took me a long, long time to see the right way of things. We had a fucked-up childhood. But even with that, it’s hard sometimes. So I’m trying to do right by him, but it’s slow progress, okay?”

                “Alright,” Dean says. “I can appreciate that, and what you’re doing for Cas. It’s just—he needs more than one person in his life, a person who’s all the way around the world. He needs a relationship that’s—simple. Easy.”

                “Dean, honey, I know you’re simple and easy,” Gabriel says. “And don’t deny that you walked right into that one. But by all accounts you two already have a past. _You’re_ the one who drove him away. What’s to say he needs to start afresh with someone new?”

                “You’re right,” Dean says, even though it hurts to say. “But it’s  not up to me, or you. It’s up to Cas. All I  can do is lay it out for him and hope he still wants me in his life.”

                “Hmm…” Gabriel says. “You work in mysterious ways, Dean. Let me ponder that while Kali gives me a massage poolside.”

                “Gab—” All he gets in response is a dial tone.

                Three days pass. Three slow, average days—where he takes the charity-case stories, the dung at the bottom of the heap, because Victor’s still pissed. Days where Jo tries to brighten the mood when she’s not buzzing to and from covering the mayoral candidacy race. On Friday, he drives out to see Bobby, and they hammer and saw and tinker and paint in companionable silence. They sit on the porch together, watching the sun set as they drink beers.

                “You’ve been out of sorts lately, boy,” Bobby says, rising to go to bed. He stops to rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You know you can always come here, however you’re feeling, and you’re always welcome? Right?”

                Dean nods, finishing off the dregs of his beer. He walks up to his childhood bedroom and climbs into the twin bed there.

                Back in March, he thought maybe he’d think of Cas whenever he was feeling bad about himself. Maybe then his brain would supply him with his biggest failure.

                But he thinks about Cas all the time. When he sees Cas’s trench coat still hanging in his closet every morning, when he’s driving with the radio on, when he wakes up during the night, aching and alone. He thinks of Cas smiling at him in a smoky bar, or of Cas as he last saw him, crying in betrayal but still so politely thanking Dean for inviting Cas to his apartment, like a friend would. How had he never realized that maybe Cas couldn’t fit into a story, but he fit just fine into Dean’s life?

                He wakes up the next morning to two texts. The first is from Sam and Jess, still on their three week honeymoon. They are wearing snorkels and giving thumbs-up like dorks.

                The second is from Gabriel Novak. There’s a line of winky faces and a cryptic _turn left immediately after the Deer Xing sign_ and, most importantly, most thrillingly, making Dean’s heart beat double time and his fingers clench around the phone—an address.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, and pining, and Sam 'n Jess making my heart melt.  
> Well friends we are reaching the ultimate most exciting moment that you all have been waiting for.  
> a HUGE THANK YOU for getting me to 100 kudos! Wow! I'm very happy :)  
> I love that everyone is still reading (although you all are such gluttons for angst, i swear. most comments i ever get is when i let the boyfriends fight--WHATS THAT ABOUT HUH).
> 
> next chapter: dean and cas let their feelings be known.  
> next, next chapter: it wasn't supposed to be easy. here's the hook.


	17. The Confidence Trick

                Dean’s got an atlas spread across the passenger seat, a dry cleaned trench coat folded in the trunk, and a stomach that’s about to contort out of his body due to his nerves.

                He’s been driving for two and a half hours. There’s a little town called Ashton a couple hundred miles out of Chicago—a place surrounded by miles of highway, forests, and little else. If Gabriel’s text is to be believed, Cas lives somewhere on the outskirts of it.

                It’s the end of June now. He hasn’t seen Cas in three months—not that he’s been counting. Or rather, not that he’s memorized the exact number of days. He’s just become more and more aware, as each day passed, that it was another day without Cas. Three months, and each day was another day where he hadn’t seen Cas, hadn’t been able to apologize, was not able to be his friend. He’s hopeful that Cas has been able to move on now, that his life has not gotten even progressively worse because of what Dean did. (He’s also afraid of that, too—that Cas has forged a new life for himself where Dean’s presence is little more than a hindrance).

                His GPS chooses that moment to slice through his self-doubting thoughts—telling him that the address Gabriel had given him was on approaching on the left. Dean’s hands tighten around the wheel in anticipation.

                He’s spent the last week vibrating with energy, barely able to contain himself. He isn’t fool enough to try to beg off work during the business week, not with Victor still coming off his annoyance. So the week’s been spent in rigorous contemplation of how this would all go down—giving Cas his trench coat back, begging his forgiveness. Reasserting himself as Cas’s friend, groveling if need be. He’s tried out seven different apology introductions on Jo, trying to get a feel for which one would work best. He even texted Sam mid-honeymoon about it, not that it did anything to help.

_I’ve found out where Cas is. Think I’m going out to see him this weekend._

                SAMMY: _Awesome! If he’s inviting you over, that must mean good things._

_…Well, he doesn’t have a phone. He’s not expecting me. So hopefully he doesn’t slam the door in my face after all that driving._

                SAMMY: _Oh._

                SAMMY: _Send us a picture of your soulful staring face and we’ll rate how effective it is_

                SAMMY: _That was Jess. But yeah, do that!_

                So now, on top of everything else, another of Dean’s concerns is turning around and making the two and a half hour drive back to Chicago, the trip completely wasted.

                There’s a _DEER XING_ sign coming up on his left, so Dean immediately brakes, even with his GPS urging him on another quarter mile. There’s an overgrown, muddy trail there, barely enough to be called a driveway. There’s no mailbox or anything to prove that there’s a house at the end.

                God, Dean really hopes Gabriel isn’t pulling his leg on this.

                A few minutes’ worth of driving through a rutted, pot-holed disaster, Dean’s testing the theory that Gabriel wanted to strand him in the middle of nowhere. He finally has to stop the car, afraid of blowing out a tire in one of the increasingly large ditches (seriously, it’s the size of a crater on the moon). He retrieves Cas’s trench coat from the back and continues the hike on foot, swearing as his boots squelch and sink in mud.

                And then—he rounds a corner, and there’s a dilapidated cabin in a small clearing. Beyond that, there’s a shimmering blue pond, big enough that Dean can’t make out the edges from here. The remains of a gravel driveway seem to peter out right where Dean’s feet are.

                So it looks like a bit of a fixer-upper. But Dean sees the promise there, too—the view of the lake and the forest, the newly shingled roof, the sturdy steps leading up to the porch. Someone has definitely been here, doing that fix-upping. Dean thinks he knows who.

                There’s the whine of a buzz saw as he climbs up the new porch steps. It’s only slightly ominous—Dean can’t decide if his heart is pounding from fear, or excitement. He steps forward, the porch planks protesting beneath his feet, and pounds on the door.

                The saw slowly quiets down, and then stops. There’s a long silence like someone inside is wondering if he imagined Dean’s knock. Finally, there’s the creak of footsteps approaching the door.

                The door swings open, and Dean straightens up, his eyes growing wide.

                “ _Cas_ ,” he says breathlessly. The man is standing frozen in the doorway like he’s afraid Dean is an apparition. That’s okay with Dean—it gives him the opportunity to rake his eyes over Cas unimpeded, taking in the changes. His hair has grown a little longer, is in wild disarray right now. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans with a hole in the knee, and a sinful gray t-shirt that’s ringed with sweat at the collar, stretching across the breadth of his chest and biceps. “Uh, wow.”

                “Dean,” Cas says. After a long, tense second, his face clears from utter blankness to the familiar head-tilt of confusion. “You—you found me. How did you find me?”

                Dean holds out the trench coat in front of him on one hand, like he’s a pizza delivery man. “Here, man, this is yours,” he says. It’s not any good answer, but it distracts Cas, who looks down at the coat with a fond expression. When he meets Dean’s eye, he seems slightly more relaxed.

                “I assume you would like to come in,” he says politely. Dean nods, clearing his throat as he crosses the threshold. Cas’s feet are bare, and there’s a smudge of sawdust across his forehead. Dean is seriously starting to doubt whether he can do this and not combust.

                “I’ve been trying to renovate from the inside-out,” Cas says, stepping past Dean to lead him into the middle of the cabin. “Plumbing and wiring were not my favorites. But I’ve found I’m somewhat a natural with wood. I’ve been building all my own furniture.”

                Dean wheels around, gaping. The cabin is sparse but didn’t feel empty, like Cas’s old house always did. Through a doorway, he can see a heavy wooden bedframe, crisp white sheets pooling over it and onto the floor. There’s a brick fireplace, a worn floral couch that Cas must have picked up cheap, and a wall of books. In the kitchen, he can see a solid, gleaming table with one chair, a row of pale blue coffee mugs on a high shelf, and a window above the sink that looks out on the water. It feels like a place that Cas is growing into, slowly but determinedly. It looks like a place where Cas has decided to stay.

                “Jesus,” Dean says. “You’ve been busy.”

                “Yeah,” Cas says. He tilts his head to the kitchen, leading Dean in. There, he pulls out the single chair and gestures for Dean to sit down in it. Dean does, still taking in the scrubbed and sanded edges of the room, the smooth contours of the chair Cas built beneath him.

                Cas leans against the counter opposite him. He’s not quite meeting Dean’s eye, and his arms are folded over his chest a little defensively. “I’ve made sure not to start my business again until your story runs,” he says. “There’s no point in settling in here if the story drops and everyone distrusts me.”

                “Oh—” Dean says. He looks up. “I—”

                “So I’ve subscribed to the _Sun_ , but I’ve waited months and it still hasn’t appeared,” Cas says. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I meant what I said before. I’m not going to give you any more interviews—”

                “Christ, no,” Dean says hurriedly. “Cas, listen—stop. I’m sorry, I’ve been overwhelmed by all of this.” He motions around the little cabin, at Cas himself. “I should have made it clear. The story isn’t happening anymore. I trashed it months ago.”

                “Oh,” Cas says. He straightens up a little. “Okay. So why are you here, then?”

                Dean doesn’t know what to say, then. He came equipped with seven different apologies, and they all seem to have fled his brain. He’s looking at Cas—who’s so beautiful, so uninhibited in this place he’s made his home. Cas, who spends his days patiently toiling; Cas, who found he could make good things with the hands he’s always been ashamed of.  Cas, who built himself only one chair at his kitchen table, sure he would never need another. Dean’s chest gives a painful clench.

                “ You’re so—” Dean says. “Fuck, Cas. I am so sorry.  You are the best person I know, and I fucked you over so bad. You have to believe me—I never meant to hurt you. You leaving…Jesus, I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”

                “I was…upset,” Cas says haltingly. His eyes meet Dean’s and then skirt away. “And then I came here and things started to become better. I’ve never lived in a small town before. The people here, they learned my name. They say good morning to me when I go to buy groceries.”

                “Good,” Dean says. He doesn’t know why he feels like crying. “You deserve to be treated like a person. Fuck, you deserve it.”

                Cas looks down at his bare hands. He holds them out a little, like he wants Dean to see them, too. “I’m more than just my abilities, Dean. I have worth whether I use them or not.”

                Dean nods. He’s not sure he can speak. He can only smile helplessly at Cas, feeling his heart swell large and aching in his chest.

                Cas lowers his hands. “Why are you here, Dean? To apologize to me? I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need to hear it anymore.”

                “Of course to apologize,” Dean says. “It’s true regardless. But also—I miss you, Cas. So fucking much. This has been the longest three months of my life.”

                Cas stares at him.

                “I’m willing to take whatever you’ll give me,” Dean says. “I want to be your friend again, Cas. No pretensions. No bullshit. Take all that away, and I swear we were good for each other. We still can be.”

                Cas’s  hands are gripping the counter now, his knuckles white. Dean doesn’t know how to read that, so he blabbers on.

                “For, like, a trial period, if you want to,” he says. “Or I could just be the guy who drops in on you once a month to talk. What do you think, Cas? Could you try?”

                Cas stares down at the floor, a deep line between his eyebrows. When he looks up, Dean’s swollen heart throbs and plummets. Not good. Not, not good.

                “No, Dean,” he says gently. He looks upset. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

                “Oh,” Dean says, after a long, terrible silence. He feels stupid, he’s sure he looks stupid—his dumb stupid feet spread gangling on the floor, his stupid hands clutching at the arm-rests like he can find salvation there. He swallows, bitter.

                Stupid, stupid. After all he did to Cas, he somehow thought Cas would even want to associate with him again? That Cas had felt one iota of the longing that Dean’s felt for the last interminable months? Think again, bucko.

                “Okay,” Dean says. He wants to get up, to excuse himself from Cas’s presence as soon as possible. Cas probably doesn’t want Dean having an identity crisis in his only chair. But Dean doesn’t feel like he can stand up right now. “Well, um, I should probably—”

                “It’s not for the reasons you think,” Cas says. He sounds desperate for Dean to understand, although Dean doesn’t know why. No explanation needed, really, as to why Cas wouldn’t want Dean around. “We’ve had too many misunderstandings—and for every time I thought we were friends it turned out we weren’t—and now, you’re offering me real friendship, but it’s too late for me to want that anymore.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, no, I get it—”

                “It’s too late for me to want _just_ that anymore,” Cas says. His eyes are burning into Dean’s. “It would end just as badly as all the other times, when we want two different things. It won’t last, if one of us wants something different, wants something _more_ —”

                “Hold up,” Dean says. “Are you—are you saying you want _more_ than friendship?”

                Cas swallows, and twitches his gaze away.

                “Cas, do you _like_ me?” Dean breathes. “Like, romantically?”

                Cas is staring at the floor like he lost something in a crack there, flushing red, but that doesn’t matter to Dean. His poor heart is trying to resuscitate itself again, pressing up against his ribs.

                “That’s _awesome_ ,” Dean says. He laughs. “Jesus, Cas. Wow.”

                “Why is that ‘awesome?’” Cas says darkly, still looking away. Dean reaches out and snags his belt loop, drawing him close.

                “Cas, touch me,” he says. “Come on, read my thoughts. I want you to know.”

                Cas shakes his head. “I know how you feel about me,” he says. Dean can see the wariness of his expression, and it puts a sliver of guilt in his joy, sliding between his ribs. Of course Cas thinks he knows how Dean feels about him. That Dean hates him, and is only here now from—what? A misguided sense of pity?

                Dean calms his wild smile, still tugging inexorably on Cas’s belt loop.       

                “Cas,” he says, gently, seriously. Cas looks at him. “That was a one-time thing, okay? A bad reaction. I’m not trying to dismiss that it happened, but—Christ, if you knew how I feel about you. Come on.”

                “Dean—”

                “Come on,” he repeats, eagerly. “Please, Cas. Just look. It’s the only way you’ll know for sure.”

                Cas gives him a doubtful expression, his knees bumping into the chair leg. Dean looks up at him expectantly, hopefully. Whatever Cas sees in his face, it’s enough, because after a second’s longer pause, he lowers his hand and gently cradles the curve of Dean’s jaw in his palm.

                That split second of blankness—

                And then, Dean’s joy and delight and longing and _want_ explode out, spiking and leaping in his brain. Dean throws himself into the emotions, knowing what to do now. He opens himself to the memories he wants Cas to have.  

                “The first time I ever met you, I knew—” Cas intones, and then Dean is throwing memories at him like they’re in a game of softball, and Cas catches each one in his sure, capable hands—all the things Dean loves about Castiel, his smile and his heart and the first time he laughed; Cas in a leather jacket, talking about sports at a bar; Cas eager to take Dean places, too, to the zoo or the amusement park; the way Dean felt when he found Cas in the warehouse, the way Dean felt when he saw Cas in the hospital, bruised and eyes blown wide; the feel of each of Cas’s knuckles under Dean’s lips.

                Dean barrages Cas with this information, sucks himself dry, spills out all his secrets, willing to do right by Cas. He opens his eyes, and sees Cas standing over him, fingers pressing into the bolt of his jaw. Cas is just mouthing now, his voice faded away to a whisper, but even as Dean watches Cas seems to come back to himself.

                “There, now, now you know,” Dean says, surprised he can even think to talk with Cas’s hands on him, and Cas stares, his hand still cupping Dean’s face.

                “You,” Cas says. He pets his hand over Dean’s cheek, his eyes wide and wondering, and Dean can’t help but lean into the touch. Even though everything feels exposed, now, raw and open, and his nerves are zinging and his thoughts are pulsing and growing—he’s not afraid, anymore. It feels like being with Cas, this feeling. It feels like a side effect of being in love.

                Cas’s eyes grow wide. “You…like me. Romantically,” he says, and Dean can’t help but roll his eyes and yank  him into his lap. Cas sprawls across his legs, hands flying to Dean’s shoulders for balance, and then they’re kissing, and _oh._

Cas’s hands are creatures of their own, sliding down his neck, smoothing over his shoulders, and his thighs are pinning Dean close—Dean thinks, deliriously, that Cas could smother him, and Dean would enjoy it.

                Jesus, the noises Cas is making—these pants of desperation, these little cries of pleasure when Dean presses his fingers against his spine, pulls him closer by his hair—

                “ _Dean_ ,” Cas rasps, and they stop for a moment to regard each other. Cas looks absolutely wrecked, devastated and disbelieving, and he twitches when Dean pets a hand down his side.

                “What,” Dean says, breathless. Cas doesn’t say anything. He regards Dean closely, and they stare at each other, chests heaving. Finally, Cas’s face is split wide by a slow smile. Still smiling, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s heart gives one painful thud.

                “I think you’re good for me, too,” Cas says. He hums a sound of satisfaction as Dean turns and opens his mouth against Cas’s, kissing him deep and soft and slow, hands spread wide over Cas’s back.

                The chair creaks beneath them as Cas settles into Dean’s lap, and they don’t speak again for a long while yet—behind them, the sun slants low through the kitchen window, painting Cas’s home full of light.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, lovelies, this has been a long time coming. Let's revel in it, shall we?  
> Let's pop the cork off a bottle of wine, swing from the chandeliers-- three chapters of Fluff Fest are about to commence. At this point, we deserve it.  
> Everyone is so wonderful for reading and kudoing and reviewing! Thank you!
> 
> Next chapter- Cas has never been in a relationship before. Dean has some things to learn himself.  
> Next, next chapter: There are things Dean's willing to give, and Cas is more than ready to receive them.


	18. Hook

           

**June-August**

                Sometimes, Dean looks back and wonders how they did it.

                That’s not to say everything was hard, or even stressful. And he would do it again—pine for months, find Cas in a remote cabin and apologize—if given the chance again. He just thinks neither of them were prepared for it, either.

                No matter the sometimes strained weeks that followed, Dean can never forget that first weekend with Cas. The other man was thrilled and intrigued by the fact that the more he and Dean touched, the less profound the effects were. No Dean having a mind-melding experience, no Cas turning into a human tuning fork. Cas’s suggestion was that, to keep have these effects continue, they touch as much as often.

                Dean most definitely did not have a problem with that. They held hands on the couch and made dinner together shoulder to shoulder; Cas awkwardly propositioned Dean into his bed, and they slept curled around each other, Cas’s hand fisted in Dean’s borrowed t-shirt.

                The next morning, Dean had woken to find Cas smiling at him shyly from the other pillow.

                “I’m so glad you’re here,” Cas had said. He reached out a hand for Dean, and Dean took it.

                Cas shows him his projects—which were many. Replacing the porch planks, reinforcing the foundation, building a dock, to name a few. Cas had enthusiasm and no experience—Dean is a little handy from his childhood at Bobby’s, and eager to help.

                So they hammered and scraped and sawed, and took breaks to lean into each other and kiss against the nearest flat surface. Cas had an old radio that he had picked up at a garage sale, and Dean found the first classic rock station they could hear through the fuzzy static. He belted out his favorites and pretended his paint brushes were drumsticks, to Cas’s delight.  Dean felt like he had never been happier.

                And then—Sunday. They moved around each other with slightly more awareness, hesitant. Their touches seemed less sure, questioning.

                Around the afternoon, Dean addressed the big ole elephant.

                “I need to get back in the city by tonight,” Dean says.

                “Of course,” Cas says. He’s running paint brushes under the sink, scrubbing out the paint in the bristles. All Dean can see is his back.

                “Do you have a phone?” Dean asks. “I can call you, over the week—”

                “No phone,” Cas says. “Not since…” He shrugs. Dean knows what he’s referring to.

                “Okay,” Dean says. “Sure. Well...guess there’s no way to contact you over the week.”

                “No,” Cas says. The faucet squeaks as he turns the tap off—yet another thing for Cas to fix—and he turns from the sink, drying his hands slowly.

                “So…” Dean says. He doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he’s already dreading how long the next five days will be. “I can come back next weekend, if that’s okay with you. Stay Friday and Saturday night again.”

                Cas’s impassive face drops away. “Yes,” he says quickly. “I’d really like that, Dean. Please do.”

                They beam at each other like idiots until Dean has to go about twenty minutes later. They kiss again, on the porch, and then the porch stairs, and Cas watches barefoot, giving him a short wave, as Dean walks down the driveway and out of sight.

                Apparently his phone was just out of range the whole weekend, because as he drives his phone starts buzzing, showing him missed texts and calls from Jo, Sam, and even his old friend Benny. At a stoplight in town, he scrolls through.

**Sammy:** How’d it go?!

**Sammy:** …Or not. Is everything okay?

**Sammy:** It’s been two days, Dean. Text ‘no’ if you are not dead.

**Jo:** Your brother wanted to know if I’d heard from you lately. What’s going on?

**Benny:** TEQUILA, brother!

**Benny:** Disregard.

                He dials Sam and brings the phone up to his ear.

                “ _Dean_?” Sam says, picking up after one ring. “Is that you?”

                “Yes, Sam, and I’m fine,” Dean says. “Cool your tits, mom.”

                “Dude, I didn’t hear from you for days, for all I know Castiel murdered you. Jess has been throwing up non-stop—she claims it’s nervousness for you, and not morning sickness.”

                “ _It’s not morning sickness!_ ” He hears Jess shout indignantly from the background.

                “It’s all good,” Dean says. “I actually…uh, spent the weekend with him.”

                “Ooh!” Jess says, breathy, like she just ran to the phone. “Bet that was athletic.”

                “We didn’t—” Dean sputters, while hearing Sam roar in laughter on the other side. “If you must know, I apologized like a gentleman, and we held hands all weekend. And maybe made out a little.” He isn’t normally so prone to overshare, but he’s smiling like a lunatic regardless, feeling his face grow warm as he thinks back over their weekend. It already seems too perfect, golden, something that could not have ever happened in his boring, rote life.

                “Good!” Sam says. “Maybe we can meet him now.”

                Dean looks at his hand on the wheel, flecks of paint still stuck beneath his nails. He remembers Cas trying to scrub Dean’s fingers clean beneath the faucet, just like he had tried with the paintbrush, until Dean grabbed him with his wet hands and pushed him against the counter to give him a lesson in hickeys.          

                “Soon,” Dean promises. He wants his family to meet Cas, but he also wants Cas to himself, too—just for a little while.

**

   This continues for three weeks—three glorious, agonizing weeks.

                During the work week, Dean can’t stop thinking about Cas. He wonders what time he gets up, and what his big plans are for the day, and whether he’s humming along to whatever song is on his fuzzy radio. Jo teases Dean, and is eager to see the two of them together—she suggests getting lunch in the city. Sam and Jess are planning for their newborn, but they seem thrilled for Dean, and also express their interest in meeting Cas.

                And yet—things are strange. It’s not like Dean and Cas are officially dating. They only see each other for about 48 hours every week, with no communication between. Every week, when Dean walks up the drive, Cas’s face lights up like he wasn’t expecting it. And every Sunday, they part hesitantly, strained, like they aren’t sure they will see each other again.

                And Dean would argue that’s not _his_ fault. He’s open by nature, and being with Cas makes him even more so, eager to please. He’s constantly telling Cas about his Sam and Jess and Bobby and Jo. He tells Cas about his dad and his gambling, about how his mother died. He talks about high school and job stress and hobbies and his favorite movies.

                But Cas doesn’t do the same. He listens, enraptured, almost always with a hand somewhere on Dean—stroking his neck, or touching his thigh. He asks questions. He laughs at Dean’s jokes. But he doesn’t give much in return—which is to say, he talks about his projects and his woodworking, but not much else. And Dean’s been driving out there for four weeks, always armed with the well wishes of the people who love Dean, who want to love Cas too, and Cas remains strangely closed off. Dean has realized that he’s known Cas for months, but barely knows a thing about him, now or then. Not much has changed.

                And, well, it’s a problem when _Dean_ is the one advocating for more communication in a relationship.

                And then there are other things. Their not talking during the week, because Cas won’t buy a phone. How Cas will close in on himself, and retreat, when Dean remarks he isn’t able to get service on his laptop or phone—things that would help Dean do his work while not giving up on his scarce time with Cas.  Or how sometimes Cas will clean the places Dean’s sat or the things he’s touched, like he wants to erase all mark that Dean’s ever been there (and hey—they’ve only been _whatever-they-are_ for like a month or so, but it hurts, a little bit, that’s some kind of evidence, a subtle _Dean was here_ , is not allowed, to remind Cas of Dean when Dean isn’t around).

                So it’s not surprising that it all comes to a head about a month in, when Dean gets up from the table and Cas is immediately there, wiping it down.

                “Not a fan of cooties?” Dean asks.

                Cas lets out a short laugh, although Dean isn’t entirely sure Cas knows what cooties are.

                There’s short silence, and then—“Seriously, man, what’s up with the obsessive cleaning?”         

                Cas lifts and drops a shoulder. “I’m just being thorough.”

                “Look—I know you pick up, I don’t know, _radioactive Dean particles_ from whatever I’ve touched…but why is that such a problem?”

                Cas sets his rag down slowly. “Is it bothering you?”

                “Well, yeah, Cas, it’s been bothering me. Because shit like that makes it seem like you don’t even want me here.”

                “I—”

                “Not to mention you’ve made no efforts to accommodate me beyond weekends, and you’ve shown no interest in meeting the other important people in my life. Do you even want me here? It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

                Cas is standing frozen at the table, staring down at it. “Of course I want you here,” he says.

                “Really? Then let’s talk about it. Why are you being so weird about letting me in?”          

                Because—because,” Cas’s shoulders slump defeatedly, and he looks up at Dean. “What happens when you grow tired of me, Dean? Anything I do for you wouldn’t matter. The friends I’d make through you would leave with you. And I’d be alone in a house that has you all over it, everywhere.”

                Dean gapes, stung. “Where is this coming from? Have I ever made it seem like this is just a fuck-off hobby for me? I’ve been upfront with you from the beginning—you’re the one who’s pulling away from me.”

                “Of course I have!” Cas says. His eyes are darting to the side, panicked, like he’s contemplating running out. “Everything’s been going so well and it would be _ruined_ once you really got to know me. Or when your friends meet me and I scare them, like I did with Jo. I’ve been trying to—to keep the peace.”

                Dean strides over and pokes a finger, hard, into Cas’s chest. “Listen up. I’m only gonna say this once right now, because you’re pissing me off. You know I want this long-term—you can see my thoughts any fucking time you want to. But I’m getting radio silence from you, Cas, _zilch_. It isn’t fair for me to give all this and not get anything in return.”

                “But—”

                “You must not think much of me if you think I would fuck off once I get to know you better. Because that’s all I’ve been trying to do, and you’re holding back on me.”

                “I’m sorry,” Cas says. He’s trembling slightly under Dean’s finger. “You know I’ve never done this before. And I’m just so afraid that one wrong move—and this would all end—and I’ve been enjoying it _so much_ , Dean. I’m not ready for that to go away.”

                Dean retracts his finger; runs his hands up and down Cas’s arms, bracingly, gently. “Look. This isn’t familiar territory for me, either. I really like what we’ve been doing too, but fuck—only seeing each other two days a week, nothing else, is not gonna work for us.”

                Cas nods. “Do you want to break up, Dean?” He says hoarsely.

                “No, Cas,” Dean says. “But I think we both need some time to see how much we’re willing to commit to each other.” He leans forward and drops a soft kiss on Cas’s forehead, a reassurance. Cas sighs shakily.

                Their week apart seems longer than that—maybe a month, or a year. Dean spends a lot of time in his cubicle, bouncing his tennis ball, thinking.

                Jo has shot up the ranks; is just as well-known as Dean now, considering her work on Abaddon and Lucian’s gang. She has come into her own, and maybe doesn’t need Dean’s guidance anymore. And Dean—well, he’s still in the doghouse with Victor, but it’s been getting better. He’s been given his pick of the stories again. He likes his job, and the people who work with him, and the familiarly and comfort of being the top dog where he works.

                But—he has to be here five days a week, nine to five. And he can feel each of those hours, deep in his bones, hours when Cas is finally becoming happy and sure of himself and Dean is missing it—Dean is missing out on loving Cas.

                And then there’s Sam and Jess and the baby to come, not to mention his apartment and job security and friends who drift in and out of the hub of Chicago, people that he can meet up with at a minute’s notice.

                Friday, when Dean walks up Cas’s drive, he is shaking in nervous energy. Cas must have heard his car rumbling down the drive, because he’s already standing on his porch, looking terrified. Dean stops at the bottom of the porch steps and they stare at each other.

                “I have a few requirements,” Dean says. “You need to get a fucking phone, so we can communicate like a normal fucking couple. You need to get a satellite dish or some shit, so I can do work from here when I need to. And prioritize fixing your goddamned driveway, because I am not leaving my baby sinking in the mud for weeks at a time.”

                “Wha—” Cas says.

                “I quit my job,” Dean begins.

                “Dean, _no—”_ Cas says, looking aghast. Dean shakes his head, holding up his hand.

                “Hear me out. I quit my job—I’m going freelance now. I have the credentials for it; it’s definitely not a step down the ladder for me. So. Some weeks are only be gone for a day or two, others I might be gone for the whole seven days. But, in the mean time, I can be _here_. That’s what I’m willing to do for you, Cas. That’s how much I want this to work out.”

                Cas nods wordlessly. He gestures for Dean to come in, closing the door with care and leading the way.

                “I thought I could show, not tell,” Cas says hoarsely. “I—I made you something.”’

                “Something” is a chair at the table, a new chair, sitting across the one Dean is used to. It’s wide and sturdy and deftly carved, even elegant. Even Dean, with his untrained eye, can tell that this must have been time-consuming and exact. That it’s a work of true, clean craftsmanship.

                Cas speaks from behind him. “I want you to feel like you belong here, Dean. I want you here, across from me, for as long as you want to be.”

                Dean doesn’t say anything; he’s staring at the chair.

                “Is that—is that okay?” Cas asks. “I thought this would be able to show my feelings—”

                Dean whirls around, grabs Cas by the collar, and shoves him down on his new chair, clambering into Cas’s lap excitedly.

                “It’s perfect,” Dean growls, and punctuates that by grabbing Cas’s hair, tugging his head back, and sucking a new line of kisses down his throat while Cas pants beneath him.

                “Good, good. I’m glad,” Cas says, dazedly, dreamily, a little while later.

**

                In August, Dean lists his apartment, waits for a buyer while he slowly moves things, by increments, into a storage locker or Cas’s place.

                Victor has wished him well—was understandably sad to see him go, as he understood Dean’s value there. Wherever Dean goes now, he’ll have loyal readers following his byline. And Jo was sad, too, although she knows she’ll still be able to see Dean whenever she wants. Even so, it was sad to pack up his cubicle and remove his nameplate from the door, knowing that someone strange to him and probably nerdy would now be across the aisle from Jo, shooting the breeze together, bouncing ideas.

                Sam and Jess ended up being wonderfully supportive. The conversation had gone a little bit like:

                “Guys, I’m moving in with Cas. I know we’ve only been ‘officially’ dating for a month,  but I made a list of reasons as to why you shouldn’t have a problem with it. Number one—”

                “Dean,” his brother interrupts, with this awfully sappy smile. “You must really love this guy.”

                “Well, I mean, that wasn’t my _only_ reason,” Dean says, coughing.

                “You know we’ll actually have to meet this guy at some point, right?” Jess says. “I don’t care if he can read my mind. It’s probably all potential baby names, medicinal terms, and thoughts about Sam.”

                “Aw, babe,” Sam says cheerfully. Dean rolls his eyes.

                “You’ll be glad to know that now Cas has me around as some kind of mind reading-neutralizer, it’s only when he touches you with _intent—”_

“Give me the list,” Jess interrupts.

All that aside, despite the doubts and stress and sad endings, Dean can’t dwell on that. He’s most excited about his beginnings with Cas.

                Cas doesn’t always know what he likes. He knows that he likes the peace and solitude of his place in the woods, but he’s also open to trying new things, too. He likes music, all music, but he knows Dean’s favorite songs by heart, now. He’ll tell Dean these things—as he discovers them, or after Dean returns home from covering a story—and they’ll talk together, sharing and comparing.

                They’ve reached a good place with each other. Dean wants to stay in this place, and continue to see this cabin that they’ve both poured time and sweat and energy become a home. Dean wants his things and Cas’s things to mix together and mesh, bumping elbows like people at a family dinner, comfortable and compatible.

                So they talk at the table, drinking beers on the steps, in bed at night. Dean talks about his thoughts and dreams, and Cas listens, and doesn’t make him feel silly.  

                “I feel bad sometimes,” Cas says. “My father—he wasn’t a nice person. I know that. He kept me locked inside the house for years, for personal gain, to make money off my abilities. He was awful to Gabriel. But—I didn’t resent him as much as I should have. For the longest time, he was the only person who ever _liked_ my abilities. So he liked me. I used to wonder what that meant about me—that the only person who liked me was _him_.”

                So sometimes Cas talks to Dean, about his relationship with Gabriel, his unsuccessful string of foster families, and Dean listens.

                Slowly, they make their way through their projects. Tearing up the rotting wood planks in the porch. Caulking, patching, painting. Cas suddenly decides that it is imperative to build a dock for his pond. In the course of a week, they make a trip together to Home Depot, ask advice on how to sink the posts in the water, and successfully finish up the task on a sunny August afternoon.

                “You still okay with driving out to Chicago next week to meet Sam and Jess?” Dean asks. They’re sitting side by side on the edge, ankle-deep in cold water, their shirts slung over their shoulders.

                “Of course,” Cas says. “You know I look forward to it.”

                “Well, they’re looking forward to it,” Dean says. “And they know what to expect, so the most you have to worry about is Jess asking you to rub her stomach and tell her what the baby’s thinking.”

                Cas smiles, and leans into him. That turns into him pressing a kiss to Dean’s sweaty neck, and Dean turns to him and rolls Cas onto his back and they kiss and kiss until they’re gasping like fish on the dock, laughing.

                Dean settles his elbows on either side of Cas, smiling down at him.

                “You make me so happy,” Dean says. He doesn’t mean to say it, he just kind of blurts it out, but he doesn’t regret it. Cas closes his eyes, runs a hand down Dean’s back, and makes a humming noise of contentment.

                “You too,” Cas says, and the simple touch of his hands on Dean’s body are like reminders, reassurance, a promise of happiness itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends, be kind. It's been a long finals week and I had to put this lovely baby of mine to rest for a while.  
>  Anyways, hope you all enjoyed! Dean and Cas had some things to work through, but the angst is prettty much retired by now (but i hope the fluff makes up for it).   
> Ahh! A huge thank you to everyone still reading and commenting and kudoing.   
> Next chapter- Cas and Sam bonding, a trip to a bar, Dean wants to introduce Cas to something new.   
> Next, next chapter: A night-time trip down memory lane.


	19. Line

**November**

Dean’s phone is filled with pictures, now.

He’s sitting at an airport in Boston, knowing he has another two hours before he needs to board his layover flight. He finds himself flipping through his pictures, grinning.

There are approximately fifteen pictures of Sam and Jess’s newborn son, Robert Anthony, who is only a month old and possibly the fattest baby Dean has ever seen. There are pictures of Sam and the baby, Jess and the baby, Dean and the baby—Cas and the baby, looking bemused by the tiny hand curled around his finger; Bobby and the baby, tearing up into his beard at his namesake and good-as-grandchild.

There are pictures of a family dinner at Jess and Sam’s house, weeks before that—a kind of pseudo-Thanksgiving, because people already had plans all over the country. Jody was there. Jo was there—a picture of her helping Cas set the table, smiling broadly at him. Perhaps most importantly, Gabriel was there, flying in to the States explicitly to see his younger brother and reacquaint themselves in a comfortable setting. (Dean likes Gabriel okay, even if he can be over-talkative and obnoxious. Obnoxious—like, taking out his phone over dinner and replaying Dean’s drunken voicemail from months ago: “—I jus’ really fuckin’ want to talk to your brother, okay? He’s just _it_ , and you’re just—just hoarding him away—like he’s Rapunzel—in a tower—that’s fucked up shit, man—I mean, _please?_ ”)

There are pictures that Sam has sent him, of him and Cas together and doing stuff while Dean is out of town. Sam will drive out to the cabin and help out with repairs. He and Dean fixed up an old beater car together over a few weekends, and then Sam patiently took Cas out on the back roads and taught Cas how to drive, even when Cas was so anxious that he was hunched up over the steering wheel, squinting into the distance—Dean has pictures of that, too.

There are pictures that Cas has sent him, with the brand-new iPhone that he is still trying to fully understand. Pictures of a particularly beautiful sunrise over the lake, or an interesting whorl in the wood he’s carving. The ones that Dean loves most are Cas’s attempts at selfies, pictures of his bemused face and probably half of his thumb obscuring the screen—because he can’t decide between two brands of cereal in the grocery aisle behind him, or because one of the horses at the farm down the road is eating his hair as he takes a picture by the fence, or just because Dean asked for a picture of him, so he sent one.

And, of course, between all the pictures of Sam and Jess and their baby and Cas, are pictures of Lucy, the dog they adopted at the pound because Cas wanted company when Dean’s away. Lucy’s a gangly one year old mutt, with paws too big and mismatched ears—one standing tall, one flopping over. Cas likes to send pictures of Lucy sleeping in a spot of sun coming through the window, or gnawing at a branch longer than herself out in the grass. Dean pretends she’s a pest for the sake of appearances, but really there’s nothing he likes more than turning the corner of the driveway and seeing Cas and Lucy waiting for him on the porch, similar dopey grins on their faces. (And, really, what she’s done for Cas already is remarkable. Dean still remembers the trip to the pound—Cas reaching between the bars at each wriggling dog and excitedly telling Dean, “This one loves me!” and “This one loves me!” and then, at Lucy’s cage, in an awed voice, “This one loves me _most of all_.” So even if Dean finds dog hairs in the bed after he’s been gone, even after Cas swears up and down he never lets the dog in the bed, Dean finds he doesn’t mind.)

In the midst of scrolling back through months of photos, grinning like a lunatic, a message from Sam pops up.

**Sammy:** Coming back from his first appointment. Feeling good!

Dean waits for the picture to load, already smiling at Sam’s words.

A few months ago, Cas had decided to start helping people with his abilities again—he said it wouldn’t be fair to _never_ use them except to cure Dean’s headaches or find out where Dean _really_ wanted to go out to dinner that night. Sam ended up being both supportive and invaluable. He and Cas rented out a little office about forty five minutes away, and Sam drew up a bullet-proof confidentiality agreement. When his firm couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help an injured person wanting to sue, Sam would see if they were interested in an alternative. Dean has been nervous for Cas, because he knows from experience that people don’t always appreciate the help that he provides.

The picture finally loads, and his anxieties drop away. Cas is driving, sunglasses on because of the glare from the snow, and he’s looking towards the camera, towards Sam, laughing.

Dean looks at it until he hears the call to board his plane—then, he saves the picture with all the others.

**

By the time Dean finally reaches his and Cas’s cabin, it’s past ten and the home is dark. He brings in his overnight bag and looks around the darkened cabin, taking in the small changes that have occurred since he was last there a few days before. Lucy gets up from her sprawl across the (monstrous) dog bed that Cas had bought for her, and sits at Dean’s feet while he pets her and texts Cas.

**Dean:** You at the bar?

He waits for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the dog’s heavy breathing. Although he loves it when Cas is home to greet him, he also finds he doesn’t mind when Cas isn’t here when he comes back. Quite the opposite, in fact. Cas has grown into his own, and found friends that Dean didn’t introduce him to. It started when he found out there were a group of woodworkers who liked to meet up, talk technique, and hold little exhibitions to sell their pieces and garner commissions. Cas had hesitantly approached the undeclared leader of the group at one of the exhibitions in the fall, while Dean hung  back behind a hand-carved dresser and tried not to feel like a mother watching her kid try to make friends on a playground. After showing the impressed men some of his work, Cas had been easily accepted into the fold, making friends and finding his fair share of buyers, too. So now, in addition to being busy fixing up the house, Cas holds appointments with Sam’s clients, takes commissions for tables and chairs and bureaus, and will go out for drinks with his fellow craftsmen on the weekends at Ellie’s, a backwoods bar that everyone here frequented.

After a few more minutes of no reply, he ends up texting Ellie, because she has a soft spot for Cas and quickly became a friend to both of them.

**Dean** : Hey Ellie he is over there right now?

A few minutes later,

**Ellie:** Yep had a beer with a client. One beer=not shutting up about how excited he is for you to come home tomorrow.

So Dean pulls back on his shoes, pats Lucy on the head, and gets back into the car.

A few minutes later, he’s walking through the door into the smoky bar. The room is lined with booths on one side and the long bar counter on the other—that’s where Dean sees Cas, keeping earnest conversation with Ellie while the owner wipes down glasses. Ellie looks over Cas’s shoulder and sees Dean, smiling, and Cas follows her gaze.

“Dean!” Cas says. He moves to get up out of his bar stool but Dean is already crossing the room, dropping into the stool next to him.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “Got back early; couldn’t wait to see you.”

Cas is already blushing, a combination of drink and Dean. “I’m so glad,” he murmurs. He reaches for Dean’s hand under the counter.

“Ugh,” Ellie says cheerfully. “You two. Can I get you a drink, Dean?”

Dean and Cas discuss their week over beers and occasional input from Ellie, when she’s not helping serve some of the other men farther down the bar. There’s an old TV set into the wall over the bar, and Dean and Cas half-watch a late Bulls game.

“Denny says that he might not be able to go to the game next week,” Cas remarks. “Says he would be willing to sell me two tickets for a _reduced price_.”

“You takin’ me on a date, Cas?” Dean smiles over the lip of his bottle.

Cas just squeezes his hand and turns back to the game in contentment.

Dean doesn’t do the same. He’s staring at the side of Cas’s face, upturned and watching the screen, and he’s struck suddenly by how much he just loves Cas. He thought maybe the realization would come during a more important, memorable moment, but no—it’s sitting easy and relaxed in a bar, drinking beers and holding Cas’s hand.

Even as Dean is having this realization, Cas doesn’t seem to realize. Ellie is saying something to him about wanting some new barstools, and even though they’re holding hands, Cas isn’t immediately drawn into Dean’s every emotion and thought anymore. Cas turns to smile at Dean while he’s talking, and falters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. “You about to ready to get out of here?”

After Cas pays, and they both say goodbye to Elly, and Cas—social butterfly that he is—has some parting comments for some of the men he knows down the bar, they find themselves in the parking lot. Dean nods towards the Impala, promising to bring Cas back in the morning to pick up his own car, and Cas shrugs, unperturbed.

Cas goes to open his door when he reaches the passenger side, but Dean shakes his head and gently crowds him up against the side, cupping his hips and drawing him in for a long kiss.

“Missed you,” he breathes against Cas’s cheek. Cas nods and bumps their noses as he draws Dean back in, and they press together until a man stumbles out of the bar, laughing, and interrupts.

“Let’s go home,” Dean says, straightening his shirt and drawing away. On the drive home, they hold hands again, and Cas hums a snatch of a song while he looks out the window, thumb drawing slow, soothing circles across Dean’s knuckles.

They kiss on the porch steps, and against the porch post, and once they’re inside the cabin and in the bedroom, the kiss against the closed door, the room silent except for the sounds of their breathing and the grumble of ice cracking and shifting on the pond.

“Cas, do you wanna—” Dean starts.

“Yeah,” Cas says, eyes wide.

So Dean backs him up to the bed and lays out him across it, and in the half-light of the room he can see his hands trembling as he undoes Cas’s shirt and helps him to shrug out of it. Now he can see the quick rise and fall of Cas’s chest, the flex in his throat when he gasps as Dean runs his hand down to Cas’s zipper.

“Still good?” He whispers, pausing.

“Still good,” Cas says, arching his hips up.

Dean pulls open his pants, and pulls them down Cas’s legs, and then does the same with Cas’s boxers. Cas is staring up at him, flushed and trusting, and parts his legs, smiling a little—so Dean licks his palm, grabs Cas’s half-hard cock, and pulls him in long strokes. Cas cries out while Dean builds up a rhythm, sucking kisses across his chest while his arm works. When Cas is suitably shaken and amazed, Dean pulls back and arranges Cas just so—propped up against the headboard, lax and inviting.

“Mmm,” Cas says dreamily, reaching for him, but Dean shuffles farther down his body, quirks a quick smile, and leans down to open his lips around Cas’s cock. He has to throw an arm across Cas’s hips when Cas breathlessly jerks beneath him, and then it’s just the bob of his head, the glide of his tongue, the heavy weight of Cas in his mouth. He’s so focused that he startles, a little, when he feels a pair of hands clumsily glance across his cheeks. Dean looks up, and sees Cas up on his elbows, fascinated, reaching forward to cup Dean’s head and rest his thumbs on the corners of Dean’s mouth, stretched wide around him.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says, settling his legs wider. “Still good.”

Cas doesn’t move or thrust up; he shakes apart, mouthing Dean’s name and cradling his jaw as Dean works him. When he comes, it’s suddenly, with a startled sound, his legs tensing up on either side of Dean as he floods Dean’s mouth. Dean waits until he’s finished before drawing off, kissing the tip before lying his head on Cas’s thigh, letting out a heavy breath.

Dean doesn’t know how long it takes him to catch his breath, he thinks he might have even dozed for a while, on Cas’s heated, trembling thigh. Eventually he lifts his head, kissing up over Cas’s navel, a sliding press of his lips over each rung of his ribs, until he’s worked his way up over Cas’s body, nosing his way into the place between his shoulder and his neck.

“I love you,” he says. Cas doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then his hands are creeping up over Dean’s shoulders, smoothing down his spine.

“Dean,” he says, so much affection in just one word. He feels Cas drop a kiss onto the top of his head, and he falls asleep somewhere in the space between the soothing draw of one of Cas’s breaths and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about time I make use of my M rating, guys.   
> I can't believe I'm almost done with this! It's so sad. Thanks to all lovely readers and reviewers.  
> Next chapter: Dean, Cas, the early hours of Christmas Eve. 
> 
> And that's it, folks. No more next, next chapters (sobs).


	20. Sinker

**December 24** ** th** **, early AM hours**

Dean doesn’t know when he went from sleeping to drowsing, but sometime in the gray hours of the morning he realizes he’s smiling at the ceiling, recalling the reception in Jo’s honor that he and Cas had gone to just days before.

                Jo, that lucky dog, had won the presitigous Goldsmith Prize for her undercover work and ensuing unraveling of Abaddon’s tenure. Once she was back in Chicago, the  _Sun_ hosted a huge fete for her, and naturally Dean was invited.

                Jo, for all her doggedness in pursuing journalistic recognition, was scared shitless by the idea of going up in front of hundreds of people—coworkers and strangers alike—and speaking about her achievements. She spent a good hour of that night slouched in a corner table, telling rapid-fire jokes to Cas to ease her nerves while Dean acted as bartender. By the time she was expected to go and speech-make, she was suitably relaxed, and gave quite a dazzling speech that took the time to thank her parents, Victor, and even Dean, for acting as her mentor for so many years.

                “You’ve taught me the best lessons,” Jo said. “How to be humane, compassionate, and still have  motivation and integrity—thank you, Dean Winchester.”

                Most people in the journalism industry knew Dean’s name, so he got a nice ovation from the crowd that night that was both rewarding and humbling. However, not nearly as many people could put a face to his name—so no one noticed Dean in his corner, flushing red, and Cas murmuring a congratulations into the curve of his neck.

                Thinking of Cas on that night also makes him think of other things—the way Cas looked that night, in a waistcoat and sinfully form-fitting slacks; the alcohol-fueled grab-handedness he showed in the cab later that night—and now Dean’s getting a pleasant tingle deep in his stomach just thinking of it—and that’s when he wakes up fully and realizes he’s in bed, in some gray, obscure hour before dawn, and his right arm is going numb beneath Cas’s naked body, who’s spooned against him and utterly worn out, deep asleep.

                Dean’s free hand tip-toes up over the curve of Cas’s hip, sliding low across his stomach.

                “Hey, Cas,” he whispers, voice still slightly hoarse. “Babe, wake up.”

                Cas shifts and murmurs something unintelligible, so Dean leans forward and blows a hot breath over the back of his neck.

                “Cas, come on,” he says, a little whiny, and Cas shifts again—he must be awake though, the bastard, because he purposely shifts his hips backwards, into Dean’s, surprising a grunt out of him.

                “Would you wanna--?” Dean says suggestively, his hand on Cas’s belly stroking lower.

                Cas yawns a little and stretches, turning to look over his shoulder at Dean. “You could at least wait until I wake up before you start sending me your lust-filled thoughts,” he says, grumpy. Dean knows he’s faking it.

                “Occupational hazard,” he whispers. Cas nods, eyes still half-lidded, and lets his head fall back on the pillow again.

                “Like this?” Cas says, and his hand creeps forward to slide over Dean’s,  his arm still trapped beneath Cas’s body.

                “Yeah,” Dean says, muffled, already tracking kisses down his spine.

                One of the perks of working freelance is Dean can effectively take his holidays whenever he wants. With some seriously frigid wind and piles of snow heralding the first day of December, Dean decided to call off traveling until after the New Year. So Dean’s had almost a month of this, a month alone with Cas. He has not been starved for minutes—they have cooked hammered and sawed and ice skated and drank and bickered and made up and laughed together telling stories beneath the sheets; they have sat side-by-side on the couch, reading their own books, feet in each others’ laps, playing adults, until Dean decided to show Cas the concept of a pillow fight.

                No, Dean has not been starved of these moments, any moments, with Cas in the past months, but he still can’t help but approach them with a certain amount of reverence, of awe. Time with Cas will just always be precious. He knows that now.

                Dean slots his knee forward between Cas’s legs, and then he’s reaching down with his free hand, whispering praise into Cas’s ear while he works him open again. The gray light coming in through the window paints everything monochromatic: the white sheets, Cas’s dark, tousled hair on the pillow, and all the bare skin tangled up in the bed together—Cas’s ankle twining around Dean’s, the muscles in his back shifting as he arches.

                Finally, Dean curls his hand around Cas’s naked hip and sinks in, gasping. The next few minutes are all sound, sensation—the hot, slick press of sliding skin,  the way Cas croons, the heel of his hand skidding across the sheets, when Dean thrusts in at just the right angle.

                “Just like that,” Cas breathes. “Please, love.”

                That gets Dean’s blood pumping.

                After the rocky beginnings of their relationship, not to mention their acquaintanceship, Dean and Cas—or Dean’n’Cas, one word, as coined by Jess—have become that revolting couple that luckily very few, beyond Sam and Jess, Bobby and Jody, or even Jo have been privy to. Dean doesn’t know which one of them started the pet names, but it’s became a habit they can’t shake at home, initially in jest but now spoken tender and true.

                “Get me my oven mitt, love?” Cas will call out, gently, and Dean will grin like a dope regardless of whether they have visitors or not.

                So, now, Cas gasps out “love” as their hips rock together, and Dean’s free hand slides up and around, forming a loose fist just over Cas’s cock. Each press forward Dean gets just right, hitting that spot that makes Cas moan, and sending Cas thrusting up into that tight space, Dean’s thumb stroking over the head. Only moments later Cas is letting out a garbled, blissful sound, jerking forward and coming in Dean’s hand.

                Dean pauses, petting down Cas’s side as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s generous enough to give Cas some time to recuperate.

                “Still good?” He asks, a while later, and Cas hums something dazed and nods.

                So Dean puts his slick hand back on Cas’s sweaty hip, and uses the other arm—the one still trapped beneath Cas—to brace across Cas’s chest, his palm over Cas’s heart, holding him steady as he seeks his release in firm, pounding thrusts, heat coiling up his spine, making his toes curl.

                “Cas—babe—love you,” he pants into his hair, and Cas’s head falls back against his shoulder, making little hiccups of pleasure as Dean grinds in deep, skin slapping skin. Dean drives in one last time—and that’s when it happens, his mind thrown open, defenseless, as he comes, all thoughts and sensation and emotions flooding into Cas, and through the joyful white noise of his orgasm he can hear Cas wail, feel him jerk and stutter in his arms.

                Sometime afterwards he takes stock—the sated sprawl of their limbs, the sweaty press of Cas’s back against his chest. His brain still buzzing, open and probably in need of a reboot. Cas is trembling, just a little. Dean feels a swell of pride, he can’t help it—

                “Ridiculous,” Cas slurs.

                “What?”

                “You’re smugly thinking about how smug you are,” Cas says. Dean leans forward to press his chin onto Cas’s shoulder, not bothering to hide his smile.

                “Dude. I just gave you two orgasms in minutes. One just from the power of my mind. I feel pretty entitled to being smug about that.”

                Cas grumbles but doesn’t say anything—it doesn’t matter, Dean can feel from the curve of Cas’s cheek, where it’s pressed against his, that Cas is smiling.

                Another moment more and he drops a kiss onto the knob of Cas’s spine, pulling out. Cas sighs, so Dean lingers close to drop another kiss to the curve of his ear, to a sweat-damp curl of hair. He tries to move to get up and grab a towel, but Cas refuses to roll off his arm, so in the end Dean has to ungracefully flounder one-handed off the bed for a discarded t-shirt on the floor.

                “Spoiled,” he says, and Cas smiles beatifically while Dean wipes down his stomach, between his legs.

                Dean drops the used shirt back on the floor and scoots close to Cas again, twisting their fingers together over Cas’s stomach.

                “My arm’s going be dead numb by tomorrow,” he says. “And it’s your own fault.”

                “Good,” Cas says. “We can both be sore.”

                “Cas—” Dean starts to move, but Cas refuses to let go of his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me? We didn’t have to—”

                “Dean Winchester, this has been the most pleasurable night of our relationship so far. I honestly don’t give a damn if I’m a little sore tomorrow.”

                Dean thinks back over their previous two times that night—folded up on the side of the bed, and then again on the pillows, as Cas sobbed for breath—and settles back down behind Cas again, ego sufficiently stroked.

                “Forgot to tell you,” Dean says, a few minutes later. “Jess and Sam are gonna stay through New Year’s now.”

                “Oh yeah?” Cas says. “I’m glad.”

                Of course he is. Not just because he loves playing with Robert Anthony, and is good friends with Sam. No, Cas and Jess have this despicable, close relationship that Dean can closest equate to giggling seventh grade girls during sleepovers.

                He has lost track of the number of times he has seen Jess and Cas laughing together in the kitchen as they drink wine, or—when sticking the brothers with food duty—they could be found sitting on the couch or out on the porch. Dean once asked them what they had to talk about, and Jess started laughing so hysterically that she cried. (He later learned that, at least that particular time, it was because Jess had asked what Robbie was thinking of and the uncomfortable, stilted answer was, "The milk in your breasts.")

                “But really, what are they talking about?” He whispered to Sam once, watching Jess hanging off Cas’s arm, howling.

                Sam was watching them too, but with a fond, fatherly expression. “I don’t know, Dean. Jess is an only child, and Cas never had any close companionship growing up, right? I’m sure there are things he can talk to Jess about that he wouldn’t to me.”

                Approximately one minute later, Dean spluttered, “You mean, about  _us_?”

                Sam shrugged. “Cas and I get along great, but he’s not gonna come to me for relationship advice. I’m sure they do talk about us once in a while, Dean.”

                That would explain their secretive talking and frantic peals of laughter when Dean tries to interrupt—but Dean is sure it’s more than _once in a while_. He’s seen Gilmore Girls, okay. And when he dated Lisa, that woman could keep a conversation going for hours, talking to a girlfriend on the phone about the others’ most recent date. He has the uncomfortable feeling that, if that is the roles Cas and Jess are playing for each other, the two brothers are being discussed and compared quite often.

                It all comes to a head one night when Dean is sulking a little, wondering  _just what_ he’s being compared to Sam about—he’s a few inches shorter, sure, but beyond that he’s sure he compares more than favorably across the board, okay—and Cas had sighed and pressed his hand to Dean’s arm, and after a moment said, in surprise,

                “Oh, Dean, don’t compare yourself to Sam. You’re  _more_  than adequate.”

                Because Cas chose the convenient interval of a family dinner to do that, complete with Jess and Sam sitting right across the table, this remark had been met with widespread hilarity, which got Lucy barking in excitement and Robert Anthony screaming, while Dean sat with a pleased, foppish flush for the rest of the night.

                So even if Dean does, he admits, sometimes have a burning desire to know what else Cas is screaming in laughter about as he talks to Jess, and even though he  _knows_ Cas must be getting his bedroom tips from someone, because every time Jess comes over Cas suddenly surprises him afterwards by adding another trick to their repertoire—more than anything he loves that Cas loves Jess, and Sam, and Robert Anthony—loves them as his own family. Dean could never have hoped for more.

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Jess’s parents decided it was too much of a hassle for them to drive all the way to Chicago to meet them for New Year’s. So Sam said he’ll pick up some fireworks along the way—we used to do that all the time, don’t worry. It will be really pretty, you’ll see.”

                Cas gives a sleepy snuffle, and then says, “Do you think they’ll like their present?”

                Dean snorts. It had been hard work, trying to hide and deflect interest in the scaffolding and construction going on right behind the cabin. Dean and Cas told the married couple that they were building a workshop for Cas—Sam and Jess thought it was such a good idea that now, Dean thinks they  _should_ build a workshop for Cas.

                But this particular endeavor they had been working on since the waning days of September, already making plans even then for Sam and Jess and their as-yet-unborn baby to stay a week over Christmas. Dean and Cas spent months creating a little suite connected to the cabin. Over the past four weeks, when bad road conditions had been keeping the couple away, Dean and Cas had finally insulated, drywalled, and painted the structure, and moved on to build a bedframe and night stand, buying covers, pillows, and a lamp. They even built a little niche for a crib that could later fit a pull-out cot—Dean and Cas were planning on this being the family’s personal room for years to come.

                “Fuck yeah, they’re gonna like it,” Dean grumbles. “It’s a fuckin’ spectacular idea, and we put a lot of work into it.”

                Of course Cas is anxious about it, though. Dean can imagine that Cas could give them a block of ice for Christmas and Sam and Jess would still be delighted—it’s in their nature—but Cas has never had friends or family to give  gifts to, and he wants nothing but the best for the people he loves.

                Dean is similar in that way. Because he sometimes likes to act more dashing and cavalier than he really is, he made a top-secret list of ten great possible presents for Cas and gave it to Sam, along with his credit card, and told him to pick three things at random. Everything on the list was stuff Cas would like--practical, long-term, useful in the future. Cas so rarely hears his thoughts anymore, not unless he intends to, but Dean didn’t want to spoil the effect even a little, so he has chosen to remain in the dark about what, exactly, Sam ended up buying.

                “I hope you’ll like yours, too,” Cas says softly. Dean’s been warned, under pain of dishwashing, not to poke around in the top left drawer of Cas’s desk.

                “I know I will,” Dean says. “This is shaping up to be a great Christmas, Cas. Sam and Jess with us, Robbie’s first holidays.”

                “I’m glad we get to celebrate that with them,” Cas says. He sounds about two seconds away from sleep.

                Dean shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “Well, no offense to the one-month old who won’t remember any of it, but Sam and Jess and I are really excited for you, Cas. Pretty much your first holidays, too. Gonna make it really special for you.”

                Cas doesn’t say anything for a long moment; Dean thinks he must have finally drifted off. And then Cas is scrabbling for his hand, bringing it up to his lips, and between frantic kisses he’s saying, “Dean—I love. I  _love_ you, I  _love you_ —”

                And Dean’s heart is about to bust from his chest, because Cas has done all but actually say those words, and for some reason now his tongue feels heavy and sluggish in his mouth.

 

"L-love you, Cas," he whispers back, and Cas presses his lips to his fingers a few more times, dreamily, before his grip loosens and he slides asleep, exhausted.

                Dean is feeling pretty loose and content, but he doesn’t fall asleep yet, not right away. He’s thinking about missed opportunities and second chances and first loves. He’s thinking about long, lazy days and sweet, sultry nights. He’s thinking about Lucy with her head on Cas’s knee, and Sammy putting Robert Anthony to sleep in a hand-carved crib, and Cas and Jess sitting close on the couch, red-faced and tipsy, laughing together.

                He’s thinking about a list of ten great gifts, and how eight items on that list were kinds of ring boxes.

                He’s thinking about how his profession is to write stories, and unequivocally, it’s not to give those stories happy endings. But somewhere, along the way, he wrote himself into one, anyway.

                And it’s with that thought, and his cheek resting in Cas’s hair, that Dean Winchester finally drifts off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My list of apologies: shameless fluff and sexytimes and general sappy gooiness from someone who has no experience writing about sexytimes and sappy gooiness, not-so-veiled hints at gooey romantic christmas proposals, the scientifically-validated conclusion that if cas can experience the full brunt of dean's emotions and feelings, he could be induced into a mind-orgasm.  
> thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read, give kudos, and comment on this angst-and-fluff beast. i have had some great conversations, insights and ideas with so many people--and as someone new to the fandom, it's been a blast. i know this isn't the oscars, but-- cherrywine, maeleene, pandorah, sheena, soholdmetight, sonicquill (in no particular order, beyond alphabetically)--a special thank you! you've all been great. love love love getting feedback.  
> i am so sad that this is over, but!--shameless plug-- i already have a new story in the works. let the angst and fluff continue.  
> *crying about dean and cas feelings, you may see yourselves out*

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers!  
> What I don't claim to be an expert on is professional journalism or Chicago. If anything's ringing untrue, I'm always glad to know.
> 
> Anddd I have a tumblr now! paperclothesline.tumblr.com


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